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31  : 


THE   COAST   OF   THE   MONTARA  MOUNTAINS 


CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

A    HORSEBACK    RIDE    PROM 
MEXICO   TO  ()Ki.<. ON 


B^ 


J.  SMEATON   CHASE 


Willi    ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM    I'HOTOCRArils 
nv    1111;   AU  I  BOB 

a  *  ¥  lS 


N    AND   m  W  YORK 
HOUGHTON   Mil  !  I  .in   COMPANY 
IIDCC  CCXDJ 


■     ,  ' 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY  J.    SMKATON  CHASE 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  February  iqij 


7  3  7  7 


i<  i  my   BROTHERS 

WHOSE   LOT  IT  HAS   BE]  N  TO  REMAIN 

IN  THE  OLD   HOME   LAND 

i  HIS  V<  'i.i  mi:  B 
All  1  c  riONATELY   [NSCRD31  D 


Atravelleb  is  a  creature  nol   always  looking 
at  Bights      hv  remembers  (how  often!)  the 

happy  land  of  hi>  l>irth  —  he  has,  too,  his  moments 
(»f  humble  enthusiasm  about  fire,  and  food  about 
shade,  and  drink;  and  if  he  givi  -  to  these  feelings 
anything  like  the  prominence  which  really  belonged 
to  them  at  the  time  of  hi>  travelling,  he  will  not  seem 

a  very  g 1  teacher;  once  having  determined  to 

write  the  sheer  truth  concerning  the  things  which 
chiefly  have  interested  him,  he  must,  and  he  will, 
sing  a  sadly  long  >train  about  Self;  he  will  talk  for 
whole  pages  together  about  his  bivouac  fire,  and 
ruin  tin  Ruins  of  Baalbec  with  eight  or  ten  cold 
lines." 

Ktnglake:  Eothen. 


PREFAB  E 

fTpHE  little  thread  of  land,  90  puny,  and  yet  so 
1  obstinate  that  it  baa  almost  the  look  <»f  an 
intentional  provocation,  which  has  kept  the  two 
great  oceans  of  the  world  asunder,  is  on  tin-  point 
of  being  severed,  and  the  twin  Americas  dipped 
apart  With  that  event  there  will  open  tor  Califor- 
nia an  era  of  development  as  striking  as  that  which 
followed  upon  the  great  awakening  in  the  middle 
<>f  the  last  century.  With  increase  of  commerce  and 
population  there  will  come  important  physical 
changes  and  the  obliteration  of  much  of  what  is  dis- 
tinctively Western  in  life  and  manners.  Especially 
for  that  reason  the  writer  hopes  that  this  volume  oi 
impressions  and  experiences  gained  during  a  leisurely 
horseback-journey  recently  made  through  the  o  1  I 
>ns  of  the  State  may  be  found  timely,  and  not 
uiih« mt  interesl  and  value. 
The  matters  of  principal  concern  to  him  in  making 

hi>   trip  Were   not,    it    i-<   true,    the   practical   on,         : 

commerce  and  its  prospects  and  possibility  3.  Rather, 
the  Facts  ami  beauties  in  nature  and  the  humane 
and  historic  elements  in  life  were  hi-  points  of  Bpeoal 

attraction.    Thus  it  occurs  that  neither  the  cities 

d  on  hi-  route  nor  the  industries  ot   tlie  1 
:       on  are  treated    in  particular  detail.     It   apology 


x  PREFACE 

be  needed  for  any  dearth  of  what  may  be  called 
practical  information  in  the  volume,  he  feels  that 
the  lack  has  been,  is  being,  and  increasingly  will  be 
supplied  by  the  many  capable  pens  always  at  work 
on  the  categorical  and  statistical  side. 

In  describing  the  features  of  the  scenery  no  at- 
tempt has  been  made  to  paint  in  high  colors.  In- 
deed, on  a  re-reading  of  the  manuscript  the  im- 
pression is  that,  in  the  desire  to  avoid  the  flamboy- 
ant at  all  hazards,  the  balance  may  have  been 
weighted  a  trifle  on  the  conservative  side.  But  if  a 
mistake  has  been  made,  it  is  in  the  right  direction ; 
and  the  writer  states  here  his  plain  belief  that  Cali- 
fornia, with  her  magnificent  mountain  range  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada,  her  generally  diversified  configura- 
tion, a  shore-line  extending  through  nearly  ten  de- 
grees of  latitude  (with  the  variety  in  climate  and  in 
animal  and  vegetable  life  which  that  fact  implies), 
and  a  history  tinged  first  with  the  half-pathetic  ro- 
mance of  Spain  and  then  by  the  brief  but  lurid  Epic 
of  Gold,  is  by  much  the  most  beautiful,  interesting, 
and  attractive  of  all  the  States  of  the  Union. 

It  may  fairly  be  pointed  out,  further,  that  there 
is  only  one  region  of  the  United  States,  and  indeed 
there  can  be  but  few  parts  of  the  world,  where  one 
may  travel  with  enjoyment  for  half  a  year  continu- 
ously, secure  from  climatic  vagaries,  and  carrying 
on  the  animal  one  rides  everything  needful  for  com- 
fort by  day  and  night.  There  might  well  be  organ- 
ized a  Society  of  California  Rovers,  whose  annual 


PREFACE  xi 

programme  it  would  be  bo  take  to  the  road,  trail, 
or  Bhore  at,  Bay,  the  first  appearance  of  apple  blos- 
som,  and   allow    no   root,    unless  One  oi    r.mvas,    to 

interpose  between  them  and  these  kindly  skies  until 
the  last  Late  Pippin  has  fallen  from  the  tree, 

N.B.  —  For  the  convenience  <»f  the  general,  and 
especially  the  non-Californian,  reader,  the  pronun- 
ciation, and  also  the  meaning  where  it  is  to  the 
point,  of  the  Spanish  words  which  occur  in  tin-  text 
an-  given  in  a  Glossary,  placed  at  the  end  of  the 
volume,  preceding  the  Index.  These  words  are  nu- 
merous, but  they  are  unavoidable  in  the   nature  of 

the  case,  since  most  of  the  place-names  throughout 

the  coast  region  of  California  are  Spanish.  Beyond 
these  place-names,  however,  the  Spanish  words  in- 
troduced are  those  only  that  have  passed  into 
common  Bpeech  in  the  one-time  Spanish  and  Mex- 

i<  aw  territories. 

I  06   \v.i .1 1  s,  Cai.ifok.ma. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   I 

Leaving  I'l  Monte  —  Objects  <>f  the  ride  — Our  hones  and 
equipment  —  HI  Montr  —  The  tirst  Mi— ion  San  ( iabrid  — 
iidly  Mexicans  -A  ranch-house  of  Old  California  — 
Downey  —A  fanner  of  California's  best  type  Sleepy 
HoUowa  —  Camp  <>n  the  Sao  Joaquin  —  Coyotes  and  sul- 
phureoua  coffee      Lagunat  anon  —Warfare  of  sun  and  fo^ 

—  The  >  ina  Beach i 

CHAPTER   II 

AHao  Cafion  —  The  eucalyptus  —  Bird  voices  at  morning  —  A 
painter's  coast    -Our  camp  at  Aliso  (anon  —  I 

tUTCS  and  resemblances  —  A  typical  Southern  California 
Cafion  — The  artist's  point    of   view  —  A   hermit-  i.ive  — 

California  land-grants:  their  names  —  Dana's  rliit  at  San 
|n. in  -  The  town  of  San  J  nan  (apistrano:  its  old-time  air: 
its  ndned  Mission  —  Relics  of  Mission  days   ....      17 

CHAPTER   III 

San  Juan  Hot  Springs  —San  Mateo  —  A  princely  ranch:  the 
Santa  Margarit  1      Via    itudesof  Western  towns:  Fallbro  >k 

—  Palomar  Mountain  —The  village  of  Pala  — The 
•rronged  Indiana  of  AguaCahente  1  he  Mission  oi  San  An- 
tonio at  Pala  -  American  hospitality  at  the  old  Monserate 
ranch-ho  1  Alvarado  — 
WQd-cats  —The  San  Luis  Rey  VaUej  W  ide  inter- 
lude', —  The  1  luajome:  it-  deterioration  —  I  he  Mission  of 
s.m  Lui  '  restored"  ■Oceanaide  —  Companion- 
ship  and  1                             Night  at  La  Coata      ...      31 

CHAPT1  R   tV 

Boom  towns  —  Del  Mar:  the  rorreypine       I  he  old  Alvarado 
m  in  idem  of  "the  <  ternal  feminine''  —  1  he 


xiv  CONTENTS 

decay  of  the  historic  Spanish-California  houses  —  Las  Penas- 
quitas  Valley  and  ranch-house  —  The  Linda  Vista  Mesa: 
prospects  of  a  kangaroo  ranch  —  Mission  Valley  —  The 
Mission  of  San  Diego  —  Old  Town  —  San  Diego,  our  south- 
ern terminus:  bay  and  water-front  —  The  highlands  of 
Mexico  in  sight 43 

CHAPTER  V 

Northward  bound  —  San  Fernando:  its  Mission  —  The  San 
Fernando  Valley  —  Topanga  Canon  —  Wild  flowers  —  A 
wayside  Thomas  —  The  coast  —  Dana's  opinion  of  San 
Pedro  —  North- Westward  Ho!  — The  Malibu:  "No  Tres- 
passing" —  Shoreside  sheep  —  I  am  an  object  of  compas- 
sion —  The  pro  and  con  of  solitude  —  Camp  by  the  ocean 
edge 54 

CHAPTER   VI 

An  inland  trail  —  Strange  country :  downs  and  combes  —  Boney 
Mountain  —  Friendly  Mexicans  again  —  Sycamore  Canon 

—  Sunday  in  camp  —  A  night  disturbance  —  Oak-glades 

—  The  Santa  Barbara  Channel  Islands  in  view  —  The  rest- 
ing-place of  Cabrillo  —  Hueneme:  a  moribund  town  —  Ox- 
nard,  "  the  hated  rival"  —  An  embarrassing  companion  — 
Ventura:    its    Mission  —  San    Buenaventura:   nasturtiums 

and  simplicity 67 

CHAPTER   VII 

Fording  the  Ventura  River  —  Tramps  in  clover  —  Hospitality 
unfailing  —  Carpinteria  —  Origins  of  Spanish  place-names 

—  A  huge  grape-vine  —  Summerland:  oil  wells  in  tide- 
water—  Montecito  and  millionaires  —  Santa  Barbara:  as 
Dana  saw  it:  and  to-day  —  The  Mission  —  A  link  with  the 
past  —  The  de  la  Guerra  mansion  —  Santa  Barbara  of  the 

far  future 79 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Arboreal  strangers  —  A  squally  evening  —  Roadside  camp  and 
company  —  An  incongruity:  church  as  barn  —  The  village 
of  Naples  —  The  Refugio  Pass  —  More  pleasant  Mexicans: 


CONTEXTS  xv 

Bernardito  the  Jolly  — Crossing  tin-  Santa  Ynea  Mountains 
A  wonderful  landscape    -  W il< i  Bowers,  and  the  madrono 

—  Las  Lomas  de  la  Purificacion      A  landed  les  — 

l    [ding  tin-  \un.i  Yin-/.  River 88 

CHAP!  1  R    IX 

in  Santa  [nes   -  Mission,  hospitality — Quaint  reHi 
An  operatic  departure       1  h<-   Gaviota    Pass    -Magnifi- 
cent ".ik-  and  sycamores  —Tin-  Nojogui  waterfall  —  S 

-A travelling  emporium  Last  ruces  An  adven- 
ture with  quicksand  -  Voices  "I  the  sea  —  Evicted  by  the 
ride  —  Sea-birds,  and  a  rattlesnake  —  A  sunset  island       .      99 

(  I!  AIM  IK    X 

A  bad  road  — A  Marblehead  skipper:  bygone  a  haling  —  Portu- 
guese nahermen —  Point  Conception:  night  at  the  light- 
bouse  A  natural  division  point  — The  Jalama:  fine  old 
olives  Camp  on  the  Eepada:  tramp  company  again  — 
A  Point  Conception  wind  —  An  inexplicable  family  —  The 
1  binese  freemasons:  DonCamik>ta  Span- 
iah-Caltfornian  —  The  Mission  of  La  Purisima  Conception     114 

CHAP!  ER   XI 

Pine  ("anon  —  Tin-  Burton  Mesa  —  ("amp  on  th<-  "-.in  Antonio 

—  Th<-  Si.  rr.i  Santa  Lucia  in  view  —  Caamalia  and  the 

•it"-  —  A  fine  seascape  —  Point  Sal:  friendly  en- 
tertainers       A   Sj  mi>h   Petruchk)  —  Fog  and   rough   trail 
Guadalupe    -Humor-       I  ertJaing  —  The  Val- 

ind  town  of  Santa  Maria      Southern  California  left 
behind      "Hunting  >n"       Tin-   Nipomo  Valley: 

the    Dana   family  —  Arroyo   Grande  Vallej       San    Luis 

'■  i\  An    Indian    lmr\  iiu   |  l.i<  <■         A    Portuguese 

.1       Ih<-  AvOas  of  A vila:  more  Srjanish-Califonuan 

,  itality:  SI  and  the  drama  of  California    .      .     129 

(ii  \rn  R  xii 

ins      The  knob-cone  pine  —  A  lost  trail  — 
ip  "ii  I  >i.;  going  — A  d  bate  with 

Chin  Jit) ,  and   Iridi  —    I  .  San 

!    ..     01 


xvi  CONTENTS 

—  Volcanic  peaks  —  A  gray  day  —  Italian-Swiss  settlers 

—  Blithe  cowboys  —  Morro  —  Entering  the  Coast  Range 
country  —  Cayucos — The  town  of  Cambria  —  Abalone  fish- 
ers —  San  Simeon  —  Piedras  Blancas  lighthouse  —  Welsh 
kindness  —  Indian  relics  —  A  primitive  school  —  Irish 
hospitality  again 147 

CHAPTER  XIII 

San  Carpoforo  Canon  —  Oddities  of  pronunciation  —  More 
kind  Mexicans  —  A  mountain  home  —  The  Pear  Orchard 

—  A  resting  spell  —  The  Santa  Lucia  fir  —  Duality  of  cli- 
mate —  Physical  and  pictorial  aspects  of  the  region  —  A 
hot  climb  —  Crossing  the  crest  —  More  great  oaks  —  Camp 
on  the  Nacimiento  River  —  A  delightful  swim  —  Sunday 
in  camp  —  The  trail  lost  —  Intelligence  of  Chino  —  The 
San  Antonio  River  —  The  village  of  Jolon:  Indian  music: 

my  classification  166 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Farewell,  Chino;  enter  Anton  —  Camp  at  the  Mission  of  San 
Antonio  de  Padua:  crows,  ants,  swallows,  and  coyotes  — 
Spanish  hospitality  and  family  affection  —  Dog  versus  skunk 

—  Digger-pines  —  Recrossing  the  crest  —  Santa  Lucia 
Peak  —  Los  Burros  mining  settlement  —  A  voluble  box-lid 

—  Delightful  trail  —  Entering  the  redwoods  —  The  coast 
again  —  Bold  scenery  —  Pacific  Valley :  a  lonely  ranch : 
"Striking  it  rich"  —  The  weekly  mail 182 

CHAPTER  XV 

Camp  at  Mill  Creek  —  "Tools  and  the  Man"  —  A  serpentine 
trail  —  Lucia,  a  postal  frontier  —  A  lost  school-house  — 
The  tan-bark  oak  —  A  Coast  Range  sunset  —  Gamboa's 
Ranch:  a  rare  situation  —  Sudden  changes  of  scenery  — 
The  trail  lost  again:  rough  scrambling  —  Little's  Springs: 
a  bath  in  mid-air  —  Unseen  choristers  —  Two  hundred  feet 
of  magazines  —  Camp  among  the  redwoods  —  Superb  trees 

—  Castro's  Ranch 194 

CHAPTER  XVI 

From  trail  to  road  —  The  Big  Sur  River  —  Canon  of  the  Little 
Sur  —  Point  Sur  lighthouse  —  A   Robinson  Crusoe  and  a 


CONTENTS  xvii 

in  mineralogy  —  Portuguese  friendliness  on  e 
more  1  !><■  perfection  oi  coast  scenery—  Point  Lobos  — 
I  ^presses  and  pines  —  I  hi-  Mission  "t  San  <  arios,  i  ar- 
m<I:  beauty  of  it-'  situation:  tin-  resting-place  of  s-rra  — 
mel-by-the-Sea  —  More  delightful  coast  —  Wonderful 
cypresses-  Monterey,  the  old  capita]  of  California:  as 
i  snv  it :  historii  objects:  the  Stevenson  house:  whaling 

day*:  the  old  church 207 

CHAPTER   XVII 

A  change  of  scenery  —  The  Salinas  River  —  Castroville  — 

Moss  I  .ending  —  Trees:  and  whitewash  —  A  jocund  cava- 

licr  —  Watsonville,    metropolis   of   apples'-  Aptos:    why 

Aptoa?  —  I  be 1  ii\  uf  Santa  1  ru/  —  Another  inland  diver- 

—  The   Santa   Crus   redwoods,   "dedi- 

ed "  t<>  tri\i.ility  —  Ben  Lomond:  .1  catechism —  The 

1  twood  Park:  redwoods  compared  with  the  Big 

•tail  —Again   at    the   coast  —  Pigeon 

Point  —  Pescadero:  a  bibulous  banker 224 

CHAPTER   Will 

Dust  and  wild  Bowers —  Half  Moon  Hay  —  "Gilt-edged" 
real  ■estate  'I  be  Montara  Mountain  coast  —  First  view  of 
San  Francisco  Hay  —  Colma:  an  Italian  lodging-house  — 
Sm  Francisco:  as  in  1906,  and  now:  Bohemia:  Stevenson: 
th<-  Mission  I  tolores  —  Ferry  to  Saosslito  —  Mill  Valley  — 
:>t  Tamalpais;  a  famous  view  — Tin-  Muir  Woods:  m  ire 
splendid  redwoods  —  Willow  (-'amp  —  lir^t  rain  —  Bolinas 
ery  1  ountry  and  a  lonely  ranch  —  A  pleasant 
meeting  —  Drake's  Bay:  the  i  !olden  Hind;  tin-  Erst  Pron  - 
taut  service  on  Pacific  >h'.r<-,:  Drak<'^  monument,  and 
"  I  >r.ik.  -  l  tram" 

CHAP!  l  R   XIX 

Tomalea Bay  —  Wind, dust  ind chickens    -Dual 

blue      Camp  and  (  Russian  River —  I 

untry,  and  a  sunst -t  erpt 

from  hist                                                   .  .-.•  ird  surround- 
md  a  one  sea                         nt,  a  lumbering 
•  !>  stent  —Apia  m, GualaJa 255 


xviii  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XX 

Big  Bert  —  Odd  names  —  The  lowland  fir  —  Wild  flowers  — 
Point  Arena:  the  lot  of  lumber  towns  —  The  Alder  Creek 
dispute  —  Greenwood  —  Gray  weather  —  Autumn  colors 
—  Navarro,  a  deserted  village  —  A  confidence  concerning 
Albion  —  Little  River:  blessings  on  that  little  girl!  —  Men- 
docino City  —  Fort  Bragg  —  Rain  again  —  Scotch  hospi- 
tality —  A  fine  surf  —  Sunday  at  Hardy  Creek        .       .       .268 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Forest  and  foxgloves  —  Usal  —  A  warm  climb  —  Kenny's:  a 
free-and-easy  reception  —  The  autumn  woods  —  Entering 
Humboldt  County —  Dry  climatic  belts  —  The  King's  Peak 
Range  —  The  Mattole  Valley  —  Yews  —  The  village  of 
Petrolia:  reminders  of  earthquake —  Cape  Mendocino,  a  sa- 
lient point:  its  lighthouse  —  A  sunset  —  Capetown  —  The 
Bear  River  Range  —  Cedars  —  Gentle  teamsters  —  The 
Sitka  spruce  —  Ferndale  —  Eel  River:  an  official  "hold- 
up"—  Humboldt  Bay  —  Eureka,  the  capital  of  northern 
California:  its  prospects  and  history 282 

CHAPTER  XXII 

Areata  —  Furze  and  daisies  —  Mad  River  —  Stump  land  — 
Trinidad  Bay,  headland,  and  lighthouse  —  Lagoons  — 
Norwegian  and  Indian  —  The  coast  hemlock  —  The  village 
of  Orick  —  Fine  game  country  —  Splendid  forest  —  Fog 
among  the  redwoods:  a  weird  scene  —  A  strange  couple: 
sentiment  yields  to  fact  —  Crossing  the  Klamath  River  — 
Requa:  the  Klamath  Indians  —  The  forest  again  —  Cres- 
cent City:  saloons  and  a  prospective  harbor  —  Doubtful 
sailing  dates  —  Smith  River  Corners  —  The  Oregon  coast 
in  view  —  The  goal  is  reached :  congratulations  —  Good- 
bye to  Anton, —  and  to  Oregon 297 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Coast  of  the  Montana  Mm  mains         .     Frontispiece 

A  Ranch-House  of  Spanish  Days 8 

HOW  WE  TRAVELLED:  CARL  Ky  I  El.  AM)  "THE  PHILOSOPHIC 

Billy" 16 

The  Mission  of  San  Antonio  at  Pala      ....  34 

Interior  of  the  Church  at  the  Mission  of  San  An- 
tonio       36 

Tin:  Remains  of  the  First  of  the  California  Missions: 

San  Diego  de  Alcala 48 

The  Mission  of  Santa  Barbara 86 

The  Coast  near  Point  Sal 132 

On  the  Nacimiento  River 176 

In  the  Heart  of  the  Coast  Range 198 

At  Point  Lobos,  near  Monterey 214 

A  Forest  Road  in  Santa  Cruz  County    ....  234 

on  Russian  River 258 

r  and  Fog:  In  the  Heart  of  the  Humboldt  Red- 
woods        302 

Tin:  Ki  wivrii   Kiyik:  Rbqua  on  the  Farther  Side   .  306 

At  the  Goal:  where  CALIFORNIA  meets  Oregon  .     .  310 


CALIFORNIA   COAST   TRAILS 


AFTER   I 

Leaving  II  Monte  —  Objects  of  the  ride  — Our  horses  and  equip- 
rn<  in  ll  Monte  lii"  first  Mil  ion  San  Gabriel  —  Friendly 
Mexicans  A  ranch-house  <>l  < >1  •  1  California  Downey  —  A 
fanner  of  California's  best  type  —  Sleep)  Holl  n  I  amp  on  the 
San  Joaquin      l  ind  sulphureous  coffee      Laguna  Canon 

—  Warfare  <>f  sun  and  fog  —  The  i".i>t:  Laguna  Beach. 

m  T  T  111.0:"  said  a  little  girl  in  a  sunbonnet,in  shy 

1  1  response  to  my  own  salutation.  (I  did  not 
know  her,  but  I  like  shy  little  girls  in  sunbonnets.) 

"Hello!  traveUin'  or  jest  goin'  somewheres?" 
said  a  pumpkin-faced  boy,  grinning  at  us  over  a 
gate. 

To  this  ingenious  witticism  we  deigned  no  reply. 

"  1  lello!  — ■  goin'  campin'?"  said  a  rancher,  jolting 
(.n  a  load  of  hay  U  hind  two  serious  horses. 

The  rancher,  with  no  very  wonderful  feat  of  dis- 
cernment, had  nil  the  mark.  Carl  Byte!  the  painter 
and  I  were  riding  down  the  south  road  from  El 
Monte  one  midsummer  morning,  with  our  blan- 
kets roil..!  behind  our  Baddies  and  other  appurten- 
ances of  outdoor  living  slung  aboul  us.  Ever  since 
I  ha<l  lived  in  ( California  I  had  been  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  explore  the  coast  regions  ol  the  State. 

At  last   the  time  had  come  when   I   could  do  it;  and 


2  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

Eytel,  my  companion  on  other  journeys  in  the  moun- 
tains and  deserts  of  the  West,  was  free  to  join  me 
for  the  southern  part  of  the  expedition. 

Our  object  was  to  view  at  our  leisure  this  country, 
once  of  such  vast  quiescence,  now  of  such  spectacu- 
lar changes.  Especially  we  wished  to  see  what  we 
could  of  its  less  commonplace  aspects  before  they 
should  have  finally  passed  away:  the  older  manner 
of  life  in  the  land ;  the  ranch-houses  of  ante-Gringo 
days;  the  Franciscan  Missions,  relics  of  the  era  of 
the  padre,  and  the  don,  the  large,  slow  life  of  the 
sheep  and  cattle  ranges,  and  whatever  else  we  could 
find  lying  becalmed  in  the  backwaters  of  the  hurry- 
ing stream  of  Progress. 

As  we  meant  to  camp  wherever  night  might  find 
us,  we  carried  with  us  everything  we  needed  to  make 
us  free  of  cooks  and  chambermaids.  At  the  same 
time  we  determined  not  to  be  encumbered  with  pack 
animals.  A  description  of  our  equipment  may  inter- 
est the  reader  who  wonders  how  this  could  be  done 
on  a  trip  which,  in  my  own  case,  ran  to  something 
not  far  short  of  two  thousand  miles. 

To  begin  with  the  horses:  My  companion's  mount 
was  a  hardy  and  experienced  Arizona  pony,  round 
of  build,  sedate  of  temper,  and  serviceable  to  the 
last  ounce.  He  owned  the  straightforward  name  of 
Billy,  and  looked  it.  For  years  he  and  his  master 
had  haunted  the  outposts  of  Western  civilization, 
from  the  coast  as  far  as  to  the  lands  of  the  Navajos 
and  Moquis,  in  that  picturesque  region  which  the 


OUR    HORSES    AND    EQUIPMENT       3 

Spanish  explorers  named  EI  Desierto  Pintado. 
Nothing  came  amiss  to  Billy,  either  in  forage  or  in- 
cident. He  ate  alternately  of  mesquit  and  tules, 
dozed  equally  well  under  palm  or  pine,  and  viewed 
burro-train  or  automobile  with  impartial  eye. 

My  own  horse  I  had  bought  for  this  trip  from  a 
Los  Angeles  dealer,  and  knew  nothing  of  him  ex- 
cept that  he  was  said  to  hail  from  some  Nevada 
stock  range.  As  neither  the  dealer  nor  he  could  tell 
me  his  name,  it  was  needful  to  fit  him  with  another; 
so,  from  a  trifling  incident  of  the  purchase,  I  called 
him  Chino.  He  had  a  good  head  and  limbs,  intelli- 
gent eyes,  and  the  lean  body  lines  of  a  racehorse.  I 
believe  there  was  a  strain  of  "blood"  in  him  some- 
where. He  was  gentle  in  temper,. and,  though  ex- 
citable, was  afraid  of  nothing,  except  that  some 
unlucky  experience  had  left  him  nervous  of  his 
picket-rope.  After  a  few  proofs  of  this  drawback  I  got 
him  a  pair  of  hobbles,  and  had  no  further  trouble. 

For  saddles  we  both  had  the  excellent  McClellan 
or  army  pattern,  which  are  light,  strong,  and  fitted 
with  rings  and  fastenings  front  and  rear  for  blankets, 
holsters,  and  other  matters.  We  had  had  saddle- 
bags built  of  stout  waterproofed  canvas,  fourteen 
inches  long,  twelve  deep,  and  five  "in  the  box." 
These  were  invaluable,  rode  well,  and  held  a  sur- 
prising quantity.  In  one  side  of  one  pair  went  our 
mess-kit  and  cooking-tackle,  the  articles  all  arranged 
to  "nest,"  and  made  with  detachable  handles.  The 
stove  consisted  of  merely  two  little  strips  of  wrought- 


4  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

iron,  which,  laid  across  a  couple  of  stones  or  even 
across  a  hole  scooped  in  the  ground,  made  a  quite 
serviceable  cooking-place.  In  the  other  side  were 
note-books,  maps,  ammunition,  toilet  things,  and  so 
forth.  There  was  room  for  some  odd  articles  of  pro- 
vision as  well,  and  even  for  a  small  volume  or  two. 
The  other  pair  of  saddle-bags  accommodated  the 
bulk  of  the  provisions,  of  which  the  staples  were  rice, 
flour,  oatmeal,  sugar,  tea,  coffee,  and  the  invaluable 
erbswurst,  a  compacted  ration  of  pulverized  split- 
peas  and  bacon.  These  items  were  supplemented 
as  occasion  offered  with  bread,  cheese,  canned  meats, 
vegetables,  and  fruit,  while  the  gun  provided  rabbits 
and  such  other  game  as  was  in  season. 

To  complete  the  list  of  our  traps,  —  I  carried  on 
one  side  of  my  saddle-horn  a  small  hatchet  in  a 
sheath,  and  on  the  other  a  camera  and  light  tripod. 
Eytel  had  the  gun,  slung  in  a  holster,  and  his  sketch- 
ing-things. Our  blankets,  with  a  few  extra  pieces 
of  clothing,  were  rolled  compactly  and  fitted  above 
the  saddle-bags  behind  the  saddles.  I  suppose  my 
horse  carried,  rider  included,  about  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  Eytel's  possibly  a  little  less.  These  were 
good  loads  for  our  rather  light  animals;  but  our 
stages  were  meant  to  be  short,  and  in  the  nature  of 
the  case  they  would  be  often  broken,  since  the 
whole  object  was  to  look  about  us  at  our  ease,  as 
tourists  stroll  about  Paris  or  London,  seeing  the 
sights. 

The  road  we  were  riding  along  might  have  been 


EL   MONTE  5 

in  Surrey  or  Virginia,  so  tall  were  the  hedges  that 
half  hid  the  fence  in  their  wild  sweet  tangle.  You 
will  not  see  much  of  verdure  in  travelling  California 
roads  by  midsummer.  Our  sun  is  a  thirsty  one,  and 
for  half  the  year  the  landscape  at  close  range  is  one 
of  dry  brown  earth  and  shrivelled  herbage,  though 
distance  may  wash  it  over  with  amethyst,  as  Mem- 
ory does  with  the  unhappy  landscapes  of  the  mind. 
But  the  land  about  El  Monte  is  damp  and  low-lying: 
green  meadows  and  fields  of  alfalfa  stretched  on 
either  hand,  and  the  road  was  triple-bordered,  first 
with  vivid  ribbons  of  grass  starred  with  dandelions, 
next  with  rustling  bulrushes  or  arrowy  evening- 
primroses,  and  then  with  a  fifteen-foot  thicket  of 
bushes  over  which  rolled  a  flood  tide  of  wild  grape- 
vines, their  tendrils  reaching  far  up  into  the  air  in 
the  determination  to  grasp  their  fill  of  summer. 

The  village  of  El  Monte  is  a  rather  pretty  little 
place,  not  too  much  modernized,  with  plenty  of  big 
poplar  and  eucalyptus  trees  swaying  above  the 
modest  cottages.  (I  venture  to  hope  that  the  reader 
agrees  with  me  in  finding,  as  I  always  do,  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  rustic  poor,  with  their  democratic  mari- 
golds and  nasturtiums,  more  charming  to  the  sym- 
pathies, and  even  to  the  eyes,  than  those  elabora- 
tions of  self-conscious  modesty  that  line  our  streets 
in  these  almost  too  elegant  days.  I  seriously  think 
that  humble  things  ought  to  please  us  best.)  The 
place  stands  near  the  bank  of  the  San  Gabriel  River, 
a  dozen  miles  or  so  east  of  Los  Angeles,  and  four 


6  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

miles  from  San  Gabriel,  that  dusty  little  hamlet  the 
long  drowse  of  whose  one  street  of  adobes  is  broken 
nowadays  by  half-hourly  convulsions  when  the  elec- 
tric car  comes  clanging  with  its  load  of  tourists  to 
"do"  the  venerable  Mission. 

Not  many,  however,  even  of  Californians,  are 
aware  that  the  crumbling  old  building,  with  the 
ponderous  green  bells  that  threaten  at  every  ringing 
to  wreck  the  cracked  campanile,  is  not  the  original 
building  of  its  name.  The  first  Mission  San  Gabriel 
was  built  in  the  year  1771,  close  to  the  river,  and 
about  five  miles  south  of  the  present  church.  It  was 
abandoned  after  five  years,  by  reason  of  some  dis- 
ability of  site,  and  a  second  building  was  consecrated, 
in  the  present  position,  in  the  fateful  year  of  1776. 
It,  also,  was  temporary,  and  in  1796  the  third  and 
permanent  structure  took  its  place. 

As  the  site  of  the  first  building  was  but  a  short 
distance  off  our  road,  we  diverged  to  see  what  might 
remain  to  keep  the  memory  of  its  brief  existence. 
Passing  a  little  huddle  of  dwellings,  half  house,  half 
shed,  we  stopped  to  ask  for  directions  of  the  un- 
mistakably Irish  head  of  an  apparently  Mexican 
family.  He  could  give  us  little  help :  had  lived  there 
a  long  time,  and  had  "heerd  somethin'  about  an  old 
'dobe,"  but  evidently  was  no  antiquarian.  Inquiry 
of  a  Mexican  woman  who  lived  a  little  farther  on 
resulted  in  the  identification  of  a  spot  near  the  bank 
of  the  river,  where  we  thought  we  could  trace  the 
outline  of  a  rectangle,  marked  by  a  slight  inequality 


THE   FIRST   MISSION   SAN   GABRIEL    7 

of  the  surface  of  the  ground,  which  might  indicate 
the  ruins  of  adobe  walls  that  had  sunk  back,  liter- 
ally "earth  to  earth,"  to  their  original  clay.  It  was 
in  the  middle  of  a  field  of  yellowed  grass  sprinkled 
with  gray  bushes  of  horehound  and  defiled  with  the 
carcass  of  a  dead  buzzard.  Hum  of  bees,  murmur  of 
summer  wind,  twinkle  of  river  shallows,  these  were 
all  as  of  old.    The  rest  was  silence. 

The  morning  had  been  cloudy,  with  a  high  fog, 
when  we  started,  but  by  the  time  we  were  a  few  miles 
on  the  road  the  fog  melted  away,  leaving  a  sky  of 
light,  sensitive  blue,  dappled  with  faint  clouds  that 
were  like  the  sighs  of  a  sleeping  child.  The  hills  on 
our  left,  under  which  lay  the  little  Quaker  town  of 
Whittier,  passed  from  gray  to  fawn,  and  behind  us 
the  rocky  barrier  of  the  Sierra  Madre  was  streaked 
here  and  there  with  folds  of  mist  that  clung  in  the 
deeper  canons.  At  a  corner  of  the  road  stood  a  school- 
house,  enclosed,  as  every  school-house  should  be,  in 
a  square  of  trees.  The  trees  in  this  case  were  espe- 
cially handsome  poplars,  rising  like  pillars  of  green 
flame  into  the  air,  and  resembling  in  shape,  I  sup- 
pose, that  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud  that  led  the  way 
for  the  fugitive  Israelites. 

It  was  yet  before  midday  when,  at  the  crossing 
of  the  river,  we  came  to  a  simple  white-plastered 
house  with  a  great  bush  of  some  flowering  vine  pour- 
ing over  the  roof  in  masses  of  wine-red  bloom.  Mak- 
ing bold  to  tie  our  horses  to  the  rail  before  the  ve- 
randa, I  entered  into  conversation  with  the  three 


8  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

Mexican  women  who  were  resting  in  the  shade  of 
the  porch,  while  Eytel  sketched  the  place.  The 
sefiora  herself,  a  sweet-faced  old  dame  with  quiet, 
kindly  eyes,  sat  gazing  out  with  placid  enjoyment 
over  the  river  while  we  talked;  the  daughters,  both 
mature  women,  stood  by,  listening,  but  speaking 
little. 

The  equipment  carried  by  our  horses  occasioned 
some  curiosity  as  to  our  purposes  and  destination, 
and  I  found  it  difficult  to  explain  the  indefinite 
nature  of  our  journey  until  I  bethought  me  of  that 
useful  term  paseo,  which  told  all  in  one  word.  (A 
paseo,  it  may  be  explained,  is  a  walk,  a  ride,  an  ex- 
cursion, a  picnic,  in  fact,  a  going  anywhere  and  any- 
how, so  long  as  it  is  leisurely,  pleasurable,  and  un- 
businesslike.) The  old  lady,  learning  that  I  was  from 
Los  Angeles,  grew  eloquent  in  a  gentle  way  over  the 
advantages  of  living  in  this  quiet  spot  rather  than 
in  the  city,  where,  beyond  noisy  cars  and  much 
people,  there  was  "nothing,  nothing."  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  agreeing,  but  I  fancied  that  the  silent 
daughters  by  the  door  had  another  opinion. 

With  friendly  adieus  we  rode  on  our  way,  and 
after  a  mile  or  two  stopped,  soon  after  noon,  under 
a  shady  pepper-tree  close  to  the  Sanchez  Ranch- 
house.  Here  we  ate  our  lunch  while  the  horses  re- 
freshed themselves  with  a  scattering  of  hay  from  the 
field,  lately  cut.  Two  Mexicans  from  the  house  came 
over  to  chat  with  us  while  we  smoked  our  pipes, 
displaying  great  interest  in  our  expedition,  and  ex- 


FRIENDLY    MEXICANS  9 

hi  biting  that  courtesy  of  speech  and  manner  which, 
for  some  reason  incomprehensible  to  me,  seems  to 
be  considered  by  many  people  as  almost  a  base 
quality  in  their  race. 

(The  reader  will  no  doubt  notice  in  the  course  of 
these  pages  that  the  Calif  ornian  Spaniards  and  Mexi- 
cans in  one  way  or  another  enter  more  into  my  nar- 
rative than  their  numerical  strength  in  the  popu- 
lation of  the  State  would  render  natural.  The  reason 
is  partly  that  my  purposes  led  me  much  into  those 
out-of-the-way  districts  where  they  still  form  a  large 
element  in  California  life,  and  partly  that  I  have  a 
genuine  liking  for  them,  —  not,  I  may  say,  without 
the  basis  of  considerable  experience.  I  confess  to 
having  no  sympathy  with  the  slighting  regard  in 
which  they,  especially  the  Mexicans,  are  held  by  the 
great  majority  of  people  in  the  West ;  and  to  holding 
them  quite  our  equals  —  using  the  word  "our"  to 
signify  the  rest  of  us  in  general  —  in  that  sum  of 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent  qualities  which  makes  up 
the  characters  of  races  and  nations.  With  this 
opinion,  and  with  the  sympathy  naturally  accom- 
panying it,  I  find  pleasure  in  their  society;  and  the 
reader  may  perhaps  receive  an  impression  of  their 
greater  importance  in  the  community  than  their 
relative  numbers  would  justify.) 

The  old  Sanchez  house,  which  stands  on  an  abrupt 
rise  above  the  road  and  the  river,  retains  still  a  few 
marks  of  the  bygone  importance  of  the  family.  It 
is  now  almost  a  ruin,  and  consists  partly  of  the 


io  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

original  adobe  house  and  partly  of  later  "frame" 
additions,  even  these  showing  traces  of  unusual  fin- 
ish and  expense  in  carved  cornices  and  ornamented 
mouldings.  The  cavernous  fireplace  and  vast  stables 
testify  to  the  numbers  of  those  who  gathered  to  the 
hospitality  of  the  old  house  in  the  days  of  its 
prime. 

All  day  we  kept  the  south  road  toward  the  coast, 
after  crossing,  early  in  the  afternoon,  the  stream 
known  as  the  Rio  Hondo,  or  Deep  River  —  a  name 
calculated  to  provoke  a  smile  from  the  traveller 
who,  passing  over  it  in  the  dry  season,  sees  nothing 
but  a  wide  expanse  of  sand  and  a  thicket  of  willows. 
Sundown  found  us  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town 
of  Downey,  where  we  pitched  camp  in  a  vacant  lot 
adjoining  a  church,  and  passed  a  night  embittered 
by  mosquitoes.  We  arose  early,  and  bade  adieu  to 
Downey  while  all  but  a  few  of  the  townspeople  were 
still  wrapped  in  slumber,  or  in  the  enjoyment  of 
those  serene  moments  during  which  one  reconnoitres 
at  long  range  the  duties  of  the  coming  day. 

For  us  it  was  a  day  of  long  straight  roads,  of  in- 
expressible dust,  of  leagues  of  sugar-beets,  and  farms 
at  mile-long  intervals.  After  the  gloomy  experience 
of  the  previous  night  it  was  cheering  to  anticipate  a 
night  of  unbroken  rest  at  the  ranch  of  a  friend  of 
Eytel's,  to  whose  house  we  rode  up  just  as  the  family 
were  sitting  down  to  supper.  We  wer,e  at  once  wel- 
comed to  bed  and  board,  hay  was  thrown  down  to 
our  tired  horses,  and  in  due  time  we  slept  the  sleep 


A   FARMER  OF  THE  BEST  TYPE     n 

of  the  just  traveller  who  is  secure  not  only  of  his  own 
but  also  of  his  horse's  welfare. 

Our  host  was  a  representative  of  the  best  type 
of  American  farmer:  a  thoughtful,  well-read  man, 
courteous  in  the  old,  leisured  manner,  widely  trav- 
elled, and  full  of  distinct  impressions  and  shrewd 
comparisons.  Twenty-seven  years  of  California 
ranching  on  the  grand  scale  had  left  him  with  a  well- 
digested  fund  of  practical  outdoor  wisdom  that 
made  hours  of  conversation  with  him  pass  like  min- 
utes. His  knowledge  of  the  locality  where  he  now 
lives  goes  back  to  the  time  of  its  first  settlement 
by  Mormons,  who,  under  the  unflattering  names 
of  "swamp  angels  "  and  "  tule-rooters,"  found  the  re- 
gion an  all  but  uninhabitable  marsh,  and  have  made 
it  almost  the  richest  of  California's  boasted  soils. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  next  day  when  we  said  good- 
bye and  rode  away.  On  the  right  hand  the  twin 
peaks  of  Santiago  Mountain  rose  into  a  faint  blue 
sky,  while  to  the  south  a  pearly  bank  of  sea-fog  over- 
hung the  Pacific.  In  spite  of  careful  directions  as  to 
our  road  we  soon  found  ourselves  wandering  in  a 
maze  of  tule  swamps  and  barbed-wire  fences,  while 
hosts  of  implacable  midges  swarmed  about  us,  biting 
furiously  at  horse  and  man  alike.  Two  Mexicans 
whom  we  met  walking  could  give  us  no  directions, 
but  a  Chinaman  on  horseback  at  last  put  us  right, 
and  we  made  a  happy  escape.  The  time,  we  re- 
marked, is  oddly  out  of  joint  when  Chinamen  ride 
while  Mexicans  go  afoot. 


12  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

The  road  ran  by  sundry  little  settlements,  some 
new  and  thriving,  others,  such  as  the  hamlet  of  Fair- 
view,  where  a  few  old  houses  and  a  church  no  longer 
young  stood  among  loquacious  poplars  and  cotton- 
woods.  With  all  the  phenomenal  growth  of  popula- 
tion in  California  as  a  whole,  we  found  tracts  of 
country  here  and  there  which  have  somehow  been 
exempted  from  the  influx,  and  some  which  from  that 
point  of  view  appear  even  to  have  retrograded.  But 
the  kindly  law  of  compensation  is  quietly  at  work, 
and  one  finds  a  charm  in  these  Sleepy  Hollows 
where  nothing  has  grown  but  the  trees,  where  the 
improvements  are  only  in  the  increase  of  moss  and 
lichen  on  roofs  and  fence-posts,  and  where  old 
ladies  still  drive  with  fat  ponies  and  antiquated 
phaetons  to  Sewing-Meetings  and  Ladies'  Auxilia- 
ries, instead  of  whizzing  in  automobiles  to  Browning 
Clubs  and  bridge  parties. 

Crossing  the  main  Santa  Ana  road  as  a  meteoric 
procession  of  these  last-named  vehicles  were  bearing 
back  Los  Angeles  holiday-makers  from  the  seaside 
to  their  homes,  we  struck  across  the  San  Joaquin 
Ranch.  The  sun  was  going  down  behind  us,  and  our 
shadows  were  projected  gigantically  before  us  on  the 
wide  yellow  plain.  Darkness  overtook  us  early, 
aided  by  the  fog  that  had  waited  for  set  of  sun  to 
advance  its  gray  armies.  A  dry  camp  and  poor  graz- 
ing seemed  to  be  our  portion:  but  luck  favored  us, 
and  by  the  last  daylight  we  descried  in  the  distance 
a  stack  of  baled  hay,  beside  which  was  a  litter  of  loose 


COYOTES  AND  SULPHUREOUS  COFFEE  13 

hay   which    we   felt   free    to   appropriate   for   our 
horses. 

Then,  prowling  in  the  darkness  in  the  faint  hope 
of  discovering  water,  we  came  upon  a  good  artesian 
flow  issuing  from  an  open  well-boring.  It  was  of 
blood-heat  temperature,  strongly  charged  with  sul- 
phur, and  of  highly  unattractive  odor:  but  it  was 
water,  and  neither  we  nor  our  animals  were  inclined 
to  refuse  it.  Tying  the  horses  securely,  lest  they 
should  be  tempted  to  exchange  our  uninteresting 
society,  during  the  night,  for  that  of  a  band  of  their 
own  flesh  and  blood  that  were  grazing  near  by,  we 
spread  our  blankets  under  the  lee  of  the  haystack, 
and  were  lulled  to  sleep  by  a  nocturne  in  which  the 
wailing  of  plovers  competed  at  disadvantage  with 
an  indescribable  clamor  of  coyotes. 

It  was  something  of  a  problem  next  morning  how 
in  this  treeless  country  we  were  to  achieve  our 
indispensable  coffee.  But  Eytel,  who  is  a  sort  of 
Bedouin,  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  With  ten 
minutes'  search  we  gathered  a  few  handfuls  of  dry 
mustard  stems,  and  with  these  he  made  a  small  but 
efficacious  fire.  The  beverage  made  with  the  sulphur- 
impregnated  water  revealed  a  startling  flavor,  and 
it  needed  a  certain  amount  of  determination  to  ig- 
nore its  weird  aroma;  but  it  was  hot  and  we  were 
cold,  so  that  it  really  went  very  well. 

We  were  early  in  the  saddle,  and  making  for  the 
pass  between  the  northwesterly  flanks  of  the  San 
Joaquin  Hills  and  the  foothills  of  the  Santa  Ana 


i4  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

Range  of  mountains.  Interminable  beans  in  time 
succeeded  to  the  miles  of  pasture  land,  and  I  gained 
an  increased  respect  for  the  useful  legume  when  I  saw 
it  growing  thus,  not  in  family  back-yard  fashion,  but 
in  great  horizon-filling  expanses  from  which  loaded 
railroad  cars  would  soon  be  rolling  away  to  carry  it 
by  the  hundreds  of  tons  to  the  bean-loving  world. 

A  countryman  with  whom  we  talked  told  us  that 
artesian  water  lay  at  no  great  depth  below  all  this 
level  plain  of  the  San  Joaquin  (not  to  be  confounded, 
by  the  way,  with  the  other  San  Joaquin,  the  great  cen- 
tral valley  of  California  whose  southern  boundary, 
the  Tehachapi  Range  of  mountains,  forms  a  con- 
venient geographical  division  between  the  southern 
and  central  portions  of  the  State).  I  thought  that 
if  that  were  so  I  could  foresee  the  time,  not  very  far 
distant,  when  the  prairie-like  landscape  I  saw  would 
be  chequered  into  hundreds  of  trim  little  farms, 
occupied  by  Farmers  of  the  New  Style,  who,  scien- 
tifically blending  water  and  soil  under  the  most 
generous  climate  in  the  world,  would  cover  the 
great  expanse  with  the  choicest  fruits  of  the  earth. 

Turning  southward  and  rounding  the  outermost 
point  of  the  San  Joaquin  Hills,  we  began  to  descend 
into  the  Laguna  Canon.  Utilitarian  reflections  were 
not  suffered  entirely  to  occupy  my  thoughts.  As  we 
rode,  my  companion  noted  with  a  painter's  instinct 
the  broad  simplicity  of  line  and  color.  Yellow  bays 
of  stubble  washed  far  up  into  the  folds  of  the  hills, 
and  on  their  wide  expanses  solitary  oaks  or  islands 


LAGUNA    CANON  15 

of  brush  were  stamped  in  spots  of  solid  umber.  The 
gray  thread  of  road  stretched  on  before  us,  appearing 
and  lapsing  as  it  followed  the  gentle  contours  of  the 
land ;  and  over  all  a  sky  of  pure  cobalt  had  succeeded 
to  the  broken  grays  and  purples  of  the  morning. 

At  the  head  of  the  long  descent  to  the  coast  lay 
a  lagoon  bordered  with  rustling  tules  and  populated 
by  files  of  water-fowl.  Here  and  there  a  heron  or  a 
sandhill  crane  stood  sunk  in  abysmal  reflections. 
Brush  began  to  cover  the  hillsides,  the  half-tone 
drabs  and  sages  relieved  with  the  uncompromising 
green  of  the  tuna  cactus,  these  last  decorated  with 
vivid  yellow  blossoms  that  sprouted  like  jets  of 
flame  from  the  edges  of  the  lobes. 

The  canon  in  its  lower  half  is  highly  picturesque. 
Steep  hills  close  it  in,  and  curious  caverns,  some  of 
them  of  large  size,  give  a  touch  of  mystery  to  their 
rocky  sides.  This  quality  of  the  scene  was  height- 
ened when  suddenly  the  sea-fog  that  lay  continually 
in  wait  along  the  frontier  of  the  coast,  gaining  a  tem- 
porary advantage  by  some  slackness  of  the  enemy, 
poured  over  the  mountain  to  the  southwest  and  cast 
the  whole  mass  into  impressive  gloom.  On  the  in- 
stant the  leaf  was  turned,  brush  was  transmuted  to 
heather,  from  California  I  was  translated  to  Scotland. 
Fringes  of  sad  gray  cloud  drooped  along  the  sum- 
mits or  writhed  entangled  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills. 
One  who  did  not  know  the  almost  impossibility  of 
rain  at  midsummer  in  this  region  would  have  de- 
clared that  it  was  imminent.   A  strong  breeze  blew 


16  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

salty  in  our  faces;  but  when  by  mid-afternoon  we 
rode  into  the  village  of  Laguna  Beach,  the  sun  again 
held  sway.  So  the  unceasing  warfare  goes  along  this 
coast. 

We  rode  our  horses  down  to  the  beach.  The  phil- 
osophic Billy  was  unemotional  as  usual,  but  my 
Chino,  a  lean  bundle  of  nerves,  was  deeply  inter- 
ested, and  gazed  snorting  and  breathing  quickly  at 
the  phenomenon  of  the  surf.  Turning  westward  we 
found  an  oasis  of  wild  oats  among  the  brush  and 
cactus  that  occupied  the  rising  ground  at  the  back 
of  the  cliffs,  and  there  cast  anchor. 

It  was  highly  pleasant  at  evening  to  lie  in  our 
blankets  listening  for  an  hour  to  the  surf  growling 
like  a  friendly  Watch-dog  in  our  extensive  back- 
yard :  and  to  wake,  after  a  night  of  industrious  ob- 
livion, to  feel  the  sea-fog  brushing  our  faces  with  its 
cool  soft  fingers,  a  kind  of  infinitesimal  needle-bath. 


CHAPTER   II 

Aliso  Canon  —  The  eucalyptus  —  Bird  voices  at  morning  —  A 
painter's  coast  —  Our  camp  at  Aliso  Canon  —  Coast  features  and 
resemblances  —  A  typical  Southern  California  canon  —  The 
artist's  point  of  view  —  A  hermit's  cave  —  California  land- 
grants:  their  names  —  Dana's  cliff  at  San  Juan  —  The  town  of 
San  Juan  Capistrano:  its  old-time  air:  its  ruined  Mission  —  Relics 
of  Mission  days. 

Laguna  Beach  is  a  main  resort  of  California  ar- 
tists, and  the  next  morning  was  devoted  to  a 
foregathering  with  certain  of  them  who  chanced  to 
be  painting  in  the  neighborhood.  Then  was  there 
great  comparison  of  sketch-books,  and  expositions 
upon  line,  balance,  and  mass:  not  even  the  spectrum 
was  out  of  range.  With  Bohemian  hospitality  and 
a  notable  combustion  of  tobacco  the  hours  sped 
away,  until,  soon  after  midday,  we  saddled  up  to 
move  a  short  distance  farther  down  the  coast. 

A  few  miles  along  a  road  that  wound  and  dipped 
over  the  cliffs  brought  us  by  sundown  to  Aliso 
Canon.  A  brackish  lagoon  lies  at  the  mouth,  barred 
from  the  ocean  by  the  beach  sands.  The  walls  of 
the  canon  are  high  hills  of  lichened  rock,  sprinkled 
with  brush  whose  prevailing  gray  is  relieved  here  and 
there  by  bosses  of  olive  sumach.  A  quarter-mile 
inland  we  struck  tokens  of  the  neighborhood  of  a 
ranch,  and  here  made  camp  under  a  rank  of  fragrant 


18  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

blue-gums  populous  with  argumentative  kingbirds 
and  cheerful  orioles. 

The  landscapes  of  California  have  been  greatly- 
enriched  by  the  acclimatization  here  of  the  euca- 
lyptus. It  is  not  often  that  the  presence  of  an  im- 
ported ingredient  adds  a  really  natural  element  to 
the  charm  of  scenery ;  but  the  eucalyptus,  especially 
the  globulus  variety  that  has  become  so  common 
throughout  the  State,  has  so  truly  native  an  appear- 
ance that  it  seems  as  if  its  introduction  from  Austra- 
lia must  have  been  more  in  the  nature  of  a  home- 
coming than  of  an  adoption.  The  wide,  treeless 
plains  and  valleys  which  once  lay  unrelieved  and 
gasping  under  the  summer  sun,  and  inspired  simi- 
lar sensations  in  the  traveller,  are  now  everywhere 
graced  by  ranks  and  spinneys  of  these  fine  trees, 
beautiful  alike,  whether  trailing  their  tufty  sprays 
in  the  wind,  or  standing,  as  still  as  if  painted,  in  the 
torrid  air. 

When  the  winter  rains  come  there  are  no  trees 
that  so  abandon  themselves  to  the  spirit  of  the  time. 
With  wild  sighs  and  every  passionate  action  they 
crouch  and  bend  as  if  in  the  very  luxury  of  grief, 
and  toss  their  tears  to  the  earth  like  actors  protesting 
their  sorrows  on  a  stage. 

The  long,  scimitar-like  leaves  are  as  fine  in  shape 
as  can  be  imagined,  and  each  tree  carries  a  full  scale 
of  colors  in  its  foliage,  —  the  blue-white  of  the  new, 
the  olive  of  the  mature,  and  the  brilliant  russets  and 
crimsons  of  the  leaves  that  are  ready  to  fall.    The 


THE    EUCALYPTUS  19 

bark  is  as  interesting  as  the  foliage,  its  prevailing 
color  a  delicate  fawn,  smooth  enough  to  take  on  fine 
tone  reflections  from  soil  and  sky.  Long  shards  and 
ropes  of  bark  hang  like  brown  leather  from  stem  and 
branches,  making  a  lively  clatter  as  they  rasp  and 
chafe  in  the  wind,  and  revealing,  as  they  strip  away, 
the  dainty  creams  and  greenish-whites  of  the  inner 
bark. 

The  tree's  habit  of  growth  sets  off  its  beauties  to 
the  best  advantage,  long  spaces  of  the  trunk,  arms, 
and  smaller  branches  showing  all  their  handsome 
colors  and  "drawing"  between  the  dense  plumes  of 
foliage.  In  early  summer  the  tree  flowers  with  a 
profusion  of  blossoms  uniquely  tasteful,  and  later, 
the  seed-vessels  are  as  quaint  and  curious  as  rare 
sea-shells.  To  crown  all,  the  tree  is  as  fragrant  as 
sandalwood,  and  the  scent  a  hundred  times  more  ro- 
bust than  that  exotic  perfume,  which  is  fit  only  for 
seraglios  and  the  effeminate  paraphernalia  of  Mon- 
golian decadence. 

The  night  was  cloudy  but  warm.  Our  blankets 
were  spread  upon  a  deep  litter  of  blue-gum  leaves, 
and  their  vigorous  essences  gave  the  spot  unusual 
attractiveness  as  a  sleeping-place.  Something,  how- 
ever, —  probably  the  virtue  of  our  Laguna  friends' 
home-grown  tobacco,  —  again  made  me  wakeful ; 
but  it  was  enjoyable  enough  to  lie  and  watch  the 
quiet  play  of  the  foliage,  the  only  sounds  the  gentle 
clatter  of  leaf  on  leaf,  the  industrious  mastication 
of  the  horses,  the  occasional  challenges  of  distant 


20  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

owls,  and  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  surf  lulling 
the  earth  with  its  unceasing  narrative. 

The  hubbub  of  birds  that  greeted  the  morning 
was  something  to  remember.  The  kingbirds  seemed 
to  be  the  earliest  risers,  their  waking  complaints 
overlapping  the  long-range  adieus  of  the  owls.  For 
some  time  nothing  else  stirred.  No  doubt  birds 
have  their  peculiarities  of  temper,  or  at  least  of  tem- 
perament, just  as  we  have.  I  fancied  the  less  stren- 
uous inhabitants  of  the  trees  lying  lethargically 
gazing  at  the  brightening  sky,  awaiting  the  fatal 
moment  when  the  duties  of  the  coming  day  could 
no  longer  be  ignored:  perhaps,  like  some  of  us,  the 
victims  of  "liver."  In  due  course  the  linnets,  black- 
birds, orioles,  and  canaries  came  in;  and  just  before 
sunrise  the  cliff  swallows,  of  whom  a  flock  of  full 
two  hundred  inhabited  a  cavern  by  the  lagoon, 
filled  the  air  with  their  sweet  trilling  voices  as  they 
swung  and  soared  in  zestful  manoeuvres.  Then  the 
cliff  wren's  cascade  of  plaintive  chromatics  rang  out 
from  far  up  the  hill;  and  when  the  sun  arose,  and 
with  him  the  insects,  the  flycatchers  arrived  to  occupy 
the  most  desirable  stations  for  business.  Next  the 
quail  began  to  call  in  the  willows,  their  flute-like 
voices  receding  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  hill- 
sides for  the  day;  the  soft  cry  of  doves  came  from 
the  stubble;  and  finally  the  scream  of  a  hunting 
hawk  supplied  the  inevitable  element  of  discord. 

Our  camp  here  was  so  attractive  that  we  remained 
for  several  days.   For  my  companion's  purposes  the 


A    PAINTER'S    COAST  21 

locality  was  quite  undeniable,  the  coast  both  up  and 
down  being  ideally  broken  and  paintable.  Point 
after  point,  rich  in  ochres,  madders,  and  umbers, 
ran  out  into  a  sea  of  truly  Mediterranean  brilliancy, 
and  chains  of  islets  ringed  with  flashing  foam  lay  like 
pendants  of  jewels  on  the  turquoise  plain.  The  cliffs 
rose  in  general  to  a  hundred  feet  or  thereabouts, 
and  were  broken  by  frequent  canons  which  varied 
with  lines  of  heavy  brush  the  sweep  of  hillside  that 
ran  to  a  horizon  of  large,  free  outlines.  Dark  ranks 
of  cypresses,  stunted  and  broken,  stood  here  and 
there  near  the  cliff  edge,  the  when  and^the  by  whom 
of  their  planting  offering  problems  of  casual  interest 
to  the  infrequent  wayfarer. 

Thirty  miles  in  the  west  lay  the  island  of  Santa 
Catalina,  often  unseen  for  many  days  together, 
and  even  in  clear  weather  hardly  discernible  above 
the  gray  line  of  the  sea-blink  that  banded  the 
horizon. 

Before  we  moved  on,  Eytel  had  quite  a  gallery 
of  studies  and  sketches  tacked  up  on  the  trees  to 
dry.  Altogether  our  camp  had  an  attractive  air  of 
al  fresco  Bohemianism,  and  we  would  not  have  ex- 
changed it  for  the  charms  of  the  Vache  Enragee 
and  the  B011V  Miche'.  Saddles,  bridles,  saddle-bags, 
guns,  spurs,  and  cooking-tackle  were  strewn  all  about 
the  little  spot  which  for  the  time  we  called  home: 
an  easel  and  palette  signified  the  door  of  the  studio; 
and  our  horses  fraternized  and  quarrelled  alternately 
in  such  close  proximity  to  our  beds  that  they  could 


22  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

have  kicked  out  our  brains  as  we  slept  if  they  had 
been  so  minded. 

This  part  of  the  coast  of  California  bears  a  curious 
likeness  to  that  of  the  Channel  Islands  off  the  Brit- 
tany Coast.  A  difference  there  is  in  details,  of  course, 
—  geologic  structure,  vegetation,  and,  somewhat, 
color.  Here,  warm  ochres,  creams,  and  drabs  alter- 
nate on  the  broken  cliff  faces  with  olive-greens,  grays, 
and  masses  of  ashy  rose ;  and  the  herbage  of  the  tops 
carries  out  the  same  general  class  of  tone.  Cactus 
growing  to  the  cliff  edges  gives  a  touch  wholly  char- 
acteristic of  the  region.  But  the  long,  wing-like 
reaches  of  the  land  line,  where  ten  miles  of  coast  will 
contain  twice  that  number  of  little  emerald  bays 
barred  one  from  the  other  by  white  arms  of  spray, 
brought  constantly  to  my  mind  the  rocky  shores  of 
Guernsey  and  Jersey.  There  are  some  little  castel- 
lated peninsulas  that  I  could  match  almost  detail 
for  detail  with  some  that  I  remember  near  St.  Aubyn. 
Such  resemblances  are  full  of  pleasure:  they  keep 
one's  thoughts  unstagnant  and  ever  on  the  wing; 
and,  better  yet,  they  reach  down  and  stir  sometimes 
those  subtlest  strings  of  all,  that  vibrate  in  the  dark, 
quiet  chamber  of  the  mind  where  lies  the  well  of 
tears,  keeping  that  unstagnant,  too. 

One  afternoon  we  rode  a  few  miles  up  the  canon 
toward  El  Toro,  the  nearest  point  of  the  railroad. 
The  valley  —  for  it  is  too  gentle  in  outline  to  be 
properly  called  a  canon  —  is  so  purely  typical  of 
many  of  the  California  landscapes  that  I  will  de- 


A  TYPICAL    CALIFORNIA    CANON     23 

scribe  it  as  an  example.  As  soon  as  we  passed  the 
gates  of  the  ranch  we  entered  a  league-long  valley 
from  which  rose  smooth  slopes  of  pale-golden  grass. 
The  rounded  swells  and  folds  of  the  land  took  the 
light  as  richly  as  a  cloth  of  velvet.  In  the  bottom 
lay  the  creek,  in  isolated  pools  and  reaches,  its 
course  marked  sharply  by  a  border  of  green  grass  and 
rushes.  Red  cattle  grazed  everywhere  or  stood  for 
coolness  in  the  weed-covered  pools.  The  hillsides 
were  terraced  by  their  interlacing  trails.  Elders  and 
willows  grew  at  wide  intervals,  a  blot  of  shadow 
reaching  from  each.  Under  them  the  rings  of  bare 
gray  earth  were  tramped  hard  as  brick  where  gen- 
erations of  cattle  had  gathered  for  shade.  In  one 
side  reach  of  the  valley  was  a  little  bee-ranch  of  a 
score  or  two  of  hives,  with  the  typical  shanty  of  the 
bee-man  closed  and  apparently  deserted.  It  was  an 
"off-year"  for  bees  near  the  coast:  excess  of  fog  had 
spoiled  the  honey-flow. 

As  we  rode,  blue  mountains  rose  on  the  northern 
horizon.  They  were  the  Santa  Ana  Mountains, 
fifteen  miles  away.  That  was  the  only  ingredient 
in  the  view  that  could  come  under  the  term  "pic- 
turesque": the  rest  was  open,  bald,  commonplace. 
European  painters  —  American,  too,  all  but  a  few 
—  would  have  declared  it  crude  and  impossible. 
The  yellow  horizon  was  cut  on  the  blue  of  the  sky 
in  a  clean,  hard  line.  At  one  spot,  where  the  creek 
in  winter  flood  had  cut  out  a  fifteen-foot  bluff,  the 
shadow  was  a  slash  of  inky  blackness  on  the  glaring 


24  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

expanse  of  sun-bleached  grass.  There  was  always  a 
buzzard  or  two  swinging  slowly  in  the  sky,  and  once 
one  rose  near  by  with  a  heavy,  shambling  flight 
from  his  surfeit  on  the  carcass  of  a  dead  steer.  That 
was  all:  but  to  Eytel,  and  indeed  to  me,  though  I 
am  no  artist,  it  was  complete  and  perfect.  If  beauty 
consists,  as  theorists,  I  understand,  declare,  in  the 
true  expression  of  spirit,  then  certainly  this  land- 
scape complied  with  the  terms.  It  was  a  very  sum- 
mary of  the  native  and  original  California  del  Sur, 
California  of  the  South,  as  Nature  designed  it.  And 
even  the  sophisticated  mind,  trained  to  weigh  tone 
values  and  balance  of  line,  found  the  composition 
ideal  in  its  magnificent  Western  simplicity.  Pretty? 
a  thousand  miles  from  it.  Picturesque?  the  very 
word  sounds  puerile.  But  simple,  strong,  dignified 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  primaries  of  art,  after  all), 
these  were  the  very  facts  of  the  case,  the  materials 
of  the  landscape. 

Of  small  life  there  was  plenty,  but  not  in  much 
variety.  Ground-squirrels  by  hundreds  scurried 
across  the  road,  or  sat  motionless,  so  exact  an  imi- 
tation of  dead  stumps  of  wood  that  it  was  hard  to 
detect  the  trick,  which  they  no  doubt  relied  on  for 
safety.  Their  runways  were  as  well-beaten  and  plain 
to  see  as,  in  many  places,  was  the  county  road  we 
were  on.  A  ground-owl,  like  another  stump,  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  creek-bluff,  his  head  revolving  like 
a  screw  as  he  watched  us  through  three-quarters  of 
a  circle.    Two  road-runners  raced  away  uphill,  the 


A    HERMIT'S    CAVE  25 

sunlight  glancing  from  their  long  straight  backs 
and  tail-feathers  as  if  from  steel.  Once  a  coyote 
stole  up  the  hillside,  standing  in  plain  view  on  the 
ridge  as  long  as  he  felt  sure  he  was  out  of  range,  and 
then  dodging  from  cover  to  cover  until  he  reached 
his  safe  ravine.  A  hawk  chevied  by  kingbirds,  like  a 
Spanish  galleon  beset  by  pirates,  drifted  and  flapped 
about  in  misery,  a  fine  moral  spectacle  of  poetic 
justice. 

We  had  been  told  of  a  cave  somewhere  in  the  canon, 
which  had  been  in  past  days  inhabited  by  a  hermit. 
Our  friend  at  the  ranch  remembered  that  nearly 
forty  years  ago  his  father  had  removed  from  it  scraps 
of  iron  and  such  other  articles  as  the  hermit,  even 
then  long  departed  and  already  become  historic,  had 
left  behind  to  keep  his  memory  gray  (as  I  suppose  a 
hermit  would  prefer  to  have  it) .  We  had  no  difficulty 
in  identifying  the  place,  though  we  had  not  asked 
for  direction  to  it.  A  mile  or  two  up  the  canon  we 
found  a  sizable  cave  in  the  side  of  a  stony  hill  that 
rose  from  the  eastern  bank  of  the  creek.  The  roof 
was  still  begrimed  with  smoke,  so  that  the  swallows, 
and  even  the  bats,  had  eschewed  the  place ;  and  Ey  tel 
picked  up  near  the  entrance  a  stone  pestle,  such  as 
was,  and  still  is  to  some  extent,  used  by  the  Cali- 
fornia Indians  to  grind  flour  in  their  morteros.  This 
no  doubt  was  the  property  of  the  legendary  man. 

A  little  delving  in  the  floor  of  the  cave  brought  to 
light  fragments  of  shells  of  mussels  and  clams,  but  no- 
thing more  eloquent  of  the  past ;  nor  were  any  reflec- 


26  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

tive  inscriptions,  such  as  one  would  think  to  be  fitting 
if  not  inevitable,  to  be  found  on  the  walls.  But  her- 
mits, we  remembered,  are  not  all  given  to  scribbling; 
and  then,  our  friend  (if  we  might  take  that  liberty 
with  him)  might  not  have  been  able  to  write.  In 
fact,  we  speculated  whether  he  might  not  have  been 
one  of  those  Kanakas  whom  Dana,  in  "Two  Years 
Before  the  Mast,"  reported  encountering,  I  thought, 
at  San  Juan,  only  a  few  miles  from  this  very  spot. 
Hence  no  writing:  and  the  pestle,  and  the  art  of  using 
it,  were  no  doubt  the  gift  of  friendly  Indians. 

We  fancied  our  man,  a  literal  cave  man,  sitting 
at  set  of  sun  in  the  door  of  his  lonely  dwelling,  re- 
volving eremitical  thoughts,  and  travelling,  perhaps, 
in  mind  the  leagues  of  blue  ocean  back  to  far  Hawaii. 
We  thought  we  heard  him  singing  his  "  Super  flumina 
Babylonis"  by  the  willows  of  the  creek;  and  with 
kindly  thoughts  of  the  unknown  brother  we  turned 
away. 

It  was  gently  mortifying,  after  these  sentimental 
exercises,  to  find  later  that  we  had  been  at  the  wrong 
cave.  The  true  place  is  in  a  side  canon  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek:  and,  anyhow,  it  was  at  San  Diego, 
not  San  Juan,  that  Dana  met  his  proteges. 

As  we  returned  in  the  late  afternoon,  shreds  of  sil- 
very fleece  were  drifting  over  the  hill  from  the  sea, 
to  dissolve  in  the  heated  air  that  still  rose  from  valley 
and  mountain.  An  hour  later  the  balance  would  be 
slowly  reversed,  and  during  the  night  the  people 
of  the  inland  towns  and  farms  as  far  as  to  the  foot- 


CALIFORNIA    LAND-GRANTS  27 

hills  of  the  Sierra  Madre  would  lie  under  the  cool 
blanket  of  the  sea-fog. 

The  land  of  California  was  held  under  first  the 
Spanish  and  then  the  Mexican  governments  in  large 
grants,  or  ranchos.  Most  of  these  have,  under 
American  rule,  and  especially  during  the  last  few 
decades,  with  their  accelerated  development,  been 
broken  up:  but  a  few  remain  intact;  and  the  original 
names  of  all  of  them  still  adhere,  and  preserve  for  us 
a  touch  of  the  glamour  of  the  old  regime.  To  name 
only  those  tracts  which  we  had  traversed  in  coming 
from  El  Monte  to  the  coast,  there  were,  —  San 
Francisquito,  Potrero  Grande,  La  Merced,  Paso 
de  Bartolo,  Santa  Gertrudis,  Los  Coyotes,  Los 
Alamitos,  Las  Bolsas,  Santiago  de  Santa  Ana,  and 
San  Joaquin.  Aliso  Canon  is  on  the  Niguel,  a  desig- 
nation which  has  by  general  consent  been  Eng- 
lished into  Newell,  a  fair  phonetic  approximation. 

We  now  entered  upon  the  grant  of  the  Mision 
Vieja  de  San  Juan  Capistrano,  the  lands  that 
formerly  pertained  to  that  once  flourishing  Mission 
establishment.  Wide  levels  of  yellow  grass  that 
shone  like  silk  in  the  sunlight  led  to  a  small  canon 
in  which  lay  a  narrow  lagoon.  Skirting  this  we  came 
to  a  great  expanse  of  stubble,  with  here  and  there 
huge  piles  of  sacked  grain  built  up  like  redoubts,  a 
palpable  defiance  to  famine. 

A  shallow  stream,  the  San  Juan  Creek,  here  comes 
down  to  the  sea.  The  adjacent  coast  was  the  scene 
of  events  narrated  by  R.  H.  Dana  in  that  graphic 


28  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

chapter  of  autobiography,  "Two  Years  Before  the 
Mast,"  to  which  reference  was  made  on  a  recent 
page.  It  was  easy  to  identify  the  cliff  from  which 
the  hides  were  thrown  down  to  the  much-abused 
sailors  of  the  Pilgrim,  and  where  Dana  himself  per- 
formed that  perilous  descent  for  which  he  received 
such  ambiguous  thanks  from  the  redoubtable  Cap- 
tain T.  The  presence  of  a  pensive  pelican,  who  sat, 
apparently  in  the  remorse  of  indigestion,  on  the  top- 
most scarp  of  the  cliff,  seemed  somehow  to  aid  in  the 
reconstruction  of  these  bygone  incidents  of  the  place. 

We  now  turned  our  backs  for  a  few  days  upon  the 
ocean  and  rode  inland.  The  sun,  setting  in  a  pageant 
of  color,  poured  a  flood  of  rosy  gold  upon  the  low 
hills  to  the  east,  and  clad  with  a  more  solemn  splen- 
dor the  higher  back  ranges.  Behind  us  a  segment 
of  gray  sea  filled  the  mouth  of  the  valley.  Its  pas- 
sionless unconcern,  in  contrast  with  the  companion- 
able aspect  of  the  other  features  of  the  scene,  af- 
fected me  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  aversion.  Water, 
though  the  most  beautiful,  seems  the  least  humane 
of  the  elements. 

Darkness  was  falling  as  we  entered  the  little  town 
of  San  Juan  Capistrano.  A  few  torpid  Mexicans 
lounged  outside  the  stores,  which  had  closed  for  the 
day,  and  gave  us  Buenas  noches  as  we  passed.  We 
camped  beside  the  river  half  a  mile  beyond  the  town, 
and  enjoyed  at  night  a  fine  entertainment  of  sum- 
mer lightning  that  played  along  the  northern  hori- 
zon. Lightning  is  something  of  a  rarity  in  California. 


SAN   JUAN    CAPISTRANO  29 

Capistrano  —  to  use  the  common  abbreviation  — 
is  the  most  interesting  small  town  in  California.  The 
reason  is  that  it  has  remained  Californian  in  the  old 
sense,  that  is  to  say,  Spanish,  Mexican,  and  Indian. 
I  suppose  five-sixths  of  the  inhabitants  are  of  those 
races,  and  the  remnant  is  a  motley  of  Basques, 
Germans,  French,  and  Jews.  Judge  E.,  who  is  the 
Justice  of  the  I^eace  and  the  effective  Squire  of  the 
place,  is  an  American,  certainly,  but  if  you  should 
ask  his  name  you  would  be  told,  Don  Ricardo. 
Capistrano's  threescore  or  so  of  houses  are  mostly 
adobes,  its  stores  are  tiendas,  its  meat-markets 
carnicerias,  its  weekly  function  a  baile,  its  cele- 
brations fiestas,  and  the  autumnal  employment  of 
its  people  pizcando  nueces  in  the  walnut  orchards 
which  fill  the  lower  valley  of  the  San  Juan. 

But  the  great  charm  of  Capistrano  lies  in  its  Mis- 
sion. Here  stood  what  must  have  been  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  that  chain  of  twenty-one  churches  which 
in  the  last  decades  of  the  eighteenth  century  rose 
like  a  monkish  dream  on  the  gentle  landscape  of 
California,  culminated  in  a  unique  but  momentary 
success,  and  sank  quickly  into  decay  under  the  ex- 
ploitation of  successive  governors  of  the  Spanish 
and  Mexican  regimes.  An  omen  of  the  general 
catastrophe  fell  early  on  the  Mission  of  San  Juan 
Capistrano  when,  in  1812,  the  great  domed  church, 
shaken  by  an  earthquake,  crashed  down  in  hideous 
collapse  upon  the  congregation  as  they  knelt  at  their 
devotions.    There  remains  now  a  ruin  of  singular 


30  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

beauty :  owl-haunted  colonnades  of  crumbling  arches, 
clustered  pillars  on  whose  broken  filletings  the 
thoughtful  moonlight  loves  to  linger,  a  fragment  of 
the  dome  showing  still  the  quaint  frescoes  of  the 
Indian  artisans,  and  a  little  nondescript  campanile 
of  four  bells,  the  pride  of  old  Acu,  hereditary  ringer 
of  bells  to  San  Juan. 

The  padre,  a  cultivated,  kindly  young  Kentuckian, 
made  us  heartily  welcome  to  the  hospitality  of  the 
quiet  old  place.  We  spread  our  blankets  among  the 
rustling  wild  oats  of  the  quadrangle,  and  consorted 
for  a  few  nights  with  the  ghosts  of  neophytes  of  a 
century  ago.  The  days  passed  quickly,  Eytel's  in 
sketching,  mine  in  exploring  with  the  padre  the  few 
remaining  treasures  of  the  library,  —  slender  tomes 
in  rough  sheepskin,  like  tall,  pale  old  gentlemen, 
written  closely  in  Spanish  with  records  of  christen- 
ings and  burials,  each  volume  devoutly  rounded 
off  with  its  "Laus  Deo,"  a  triumph  of  flamboy- 
ant calligraphy ;  ancient  sets  of  Bossuet  and  Massil- 
lon;  breviaries,  missals,  what-not; — all  endued  with 
that  odor  of  sanctity  which  is  neither  Catholic  nor 
Protestant,  the  sanctity  of  age  and  bygone  human 
usage. 


CHAPTER   III 

San  Juan  Hot  Springs  —  San  Mateo  —  A  princely  ranch:  the  Santa 
Margarita  —  Vicissitudes  of  Western  towns:  Fallbrook  —  Palo- 
mar  Mountain  —  The  village  of  Pala  —  The  wronged  Indians  of 
Agua  Caliente  —  The  Mission  of  San  Antonio  at  Pala  —  Ameri- 
can hospitality  at  the  old  Monserate  ranch-house  —  Echoes  of  the 
past:  Don  Tomas  Alvarado  —  Wild-cats  —  The  San  Luis  Rey 
Valley  —  Wayside  interludes  —  The  Guajome:  its  deterioration 
—  The  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey,  as  "restored"  —  Oceanside  — 
Companionship  and  moods  of  the  sea  —  Night  at  La  Costa. 

A  dozen  miles  or  so  inland  from  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano  are  the  San  Juan  Hot  Springs.  The  short 
journey  thither  was  fully  justified  by  the  beauty 
of  the  mountain  canon  in  which  the  springs  are 
situated.  We  gazed  at  one  another  expectantly  after 
taking  our  baths  in  the  hot  sulphur  water,  but 
were  bound  to  admit  that  the  soft  and  velvety  com- 
plexions that  are  promised  as  a  result  had  not  been 
achieved. 

Turning  again  westward  we  followed  the  valley 
of  the  San  Juan  down  to  the  coast.  Then  for  a  few 
miles  the  road  lay  along  the  beach,  in  company 
with  the  railroad.  Now  and  then  a  train  passed  us, 
and  jaded  passengers  lolling  in  corner  seats  turned 
eyes  of  envy  (or  so  we  thought)  upon  us  as  we  rode 
leisurely  along  on  our  uncommercial  travels.  By 
sundown  wc  arrived  at  San  Mateo,  which  we  found 
to  consist  of  two  ranch-houses  and  a  water-tank, 


32  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

to  say  nothing  of  the  name.  Here  we  camped  on  the 
border-line  of  the  counties  of  Orange  and  San  Diego, 
and  performed  the  feat  of  cooking  our  supper  in  one 
county  and  eating  it  in  the  other. 

A  long  extent  of  thinly  settled  country  continues 
to  the  southward,  broken  by  canons  whose  names 
offered  interesting  matter  for  speculation  in  advance 
and  confirmation  in  experience :  —  El  Homo  (the 
oven),  Piedra  de  Lumbre  (firestone),  and  Las 
Pulgas  (the  fleas). 

Again  we  left  the  coast  and  struck  inland.  After 
crossing  Aliso  Creek  the  road  led  up  a  long  winding 
canon,  and  then  descended  steeply  to  a  wide  green 
valley  in  which  ranged  great  bands  of  cattle.  It 
was  the  Home  Ranch  of  the  Santa  Margarita,  one 
of  the  largest  of  those  princely  estates  in  which  the 
lands  of  California  were  held  under  the  former  rule. 
The  house  is  a  charming  adobe  roofed  with  tiles, 
built  in  the  Spanish  mode  around  a  flowery  patio. 
Cascades  of  roses,  bougainvilleas,  and  trailing  ge- 
raniums pour  over  every  fence :  hammocks,  benches, 
and  an  olla  of  cool  water  invite  one  into  the  shade 
of  the  veranda,  where  antlers  of  deer  are  set  above 
the  heavy  doors  and  barred  Spanish  windows:  hill 
and  valley,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  range,  are  stippled 
with  grazing  cattle;  and  the  air  of  the  whole  place 
is  that  of  large,  simple  interests,  moving  quietly 
on  year  by  year  from  a  serene  past  to  a  tranquil 
future. 

We  camped  beside  the  creek,  and  passed  a  strenu- 


PALOMAR  MOUNTAIN  33 

ous  evening  in  battle  with  the  mosquitoes.  A  full 
moon  shone  down  upon  us  and  lighted  the  enemy  to 
the  attack.  I  turned  in  early,  and,  protected  by  an 
oilskin  drawn  loosely  over  my  head,  lay  and  listened 
with  deep  pleasure  to  their  excited  voices  outside. 

From  here  we  took  the  road  to  the  east  through 
the  rural  town  of  Fallbrook.  This  is  one  of  the  many 
California  towns  that  owe  their  birth  to  great  ex- 
pectations which  have  never  been  realized.  Fall- 
brook  once  boasted  a  railroad,  but  the  time-tables 
know  its  name  no  more.  A  large  hotel,  its  gay  paint 
subdued  to  a  pessimistic  gray,  bears  the  inconse- 
quent name  of  "The  Naples."  The  only  signs  of 
life  revealed  by  a  careful  survey  of  the  main  street 
at  midday  were  two  urchins  eating  ice-cream  and  an 
elderly  man  with  a  faded  valise  who  stood  gazing 
up  and  down  the  street,  evidently  looking  for  means 
of  escape. 

A  long  and  dusty  road  bordered  with  groves  of 
sleepy  olives  led  straight  toward  the  mountains.  In 
due  course  ensued  grateful  intervals  of  oaks,  and 
then,  better  still,  glimpses  of  forested  peaks,  of  which 
the  highest  was  Palomar  Mountain  (more  often 
called  by  its  alias  after  "a  party  by  the  name  of 
Smith").  It  was  good  to  see  that  dark,  dim  blue  of 
timber,  and  to  know  that  the  great  friendly  pines 
were  thriving  away  up  there,  while  they  looked  down 
on  us  who  loved  them,  in  the  hot  and  dusty  valley. 

The  miles  strung  out  unconscionably,  but  at  last 
we  saw,  far  up  the  valley,  a  low  white  tower  which 


34  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

we  knew  to  be  the  campanile  of  the  Mission  of  San 
Antonio  of  Pala.  In  the  gathering  dusk  we  rode  into 
the  village,  and  bivouacked  in  the  adobe-walled 
courtyard  in  the  rear  of  the  general  store. 

We  dined  in  dust  and  darkness,  and  later,  when 
the  moon  came  up,  wandered  for  an  hour  about  the 
village.  Lights  shone  here  and  there  in  the  windows 
of  the  cottages;  the  humble  white-railed  graves  in 
the  little  Indian  cemetery  glimmered  under  the 
shadow  of  the  old  tower  whose  bells  had  counted 
out  the  lives  of  all  that  sleeping  company;  a  man- 
dolin tinkled ;  the  mountains  rose  near  and  solemn 
all  around ;  a  bar  of  warm  light  shone  from  the  half- 
open  door  of  the  padre's  room  in  the  cloister;  from 
a  new  building  across  the  street  came  the  click  of 
billiard  balls.   So  even  Pala  suffers  change. 

Its  great  change  came  when  a  few  years  ago 
the  Indians  of  Agua  Caliente,  on  Warner's  Ranch, 
twenty  miles  to  the  east,  were  forcibly  and  (to  go 
back  to  principles  weightier  than  the  law)  shame- 
fully driven  from  the  place  that  they  and  their  fore- 
fathers had  inhabited  from  time  immemorial,  and 
on  which  there  chanced  to  be  some  valuable  mineral 
springs  that  invited  exploitation.  The  Indians  of 
Pala  had  dwindled  to  few  in  number,  in  compliance 
with  the  fiat  that  is  ruling  the  American  aborigines 
out  of  existence ;  so  in  a  businesslike  manner  it  was 
decided  to  lump  the  Agua  Calientes  with  them,  to 
mingle  or  refrain  as  they  chose.  Of  course  they  pro- 
tested, and  their  friends  among  the  whites  appealed; 


THE   INDIANS  OF  AGUA   CALIENTE  35 

but  some  one  in  authority  on  the  other  side  of  the 
continent  had  said  it  was  to  be,  and  it  was  done. 
Amid  their  lamentations  they  were  carted  over  the 
mountains  with  their  pitiful  belongings,  and  here  they 
now  live,  in  a  row  of  flimsy  little  houses,  with  num- 
bers on  the  doors,  quite  respectable,  comparatively 
prosperous,  and  deeply  wronged.  It  is  one  more 
item  on  a  long  account.  Their  Indian  hearts  still 
yearn  for  the  old  places :  even  the  grasses  for  basket- 
making  are  not  so  good,  the  women  said  to  me,  as 
those  of  Agua  Caliente.  "Are  not  Abana  and  Phar- 
par"— ? 

The  little  church  is  inviting  in  its  whitewashed 
simplicity.  It  is  a  plain  rectangle  of  adobe,  with  tiled 
floor,  unceiled  roof,  a  few  plain  benches,  and  an  altar 
ornamented  with  paper  flowers  and  other  humble 
offerings  whose  irrelevance  (to  a  Protestant  eye) 
may  well  be  redeemed  by  their  pathos.  The  genial 
young  priest  has  charge  of  four  small  Indian  settle- 
ments beside  this  of  Pala,  namely,  Potrero,  Rincon, 
Pachanga,  and  Pauma.  They  all  lie  in  the  neigh- 
boring mountain  region,  and  with  his  little  buggy 
and  his  sagacious  roan  he  drives  about  his  wide 
parish,  baptizing,  marrying,  and  burying  his  In- 
dians, —  as  interesting  and  romantic  a  field  of  labor, 
I  should  think,  as  any  in  America. 

Leaving  Pala  about  mid-afternoon  we  turned 
coastward,  following  the  course  of  the  San  Luis 
Rey  River.  Night  overtook  us  before  we  had  found 
grazing  and  water  for  our  animals,  and  the  prospect 


36  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

was  not  cheering.  We  were  thinking  of  turning  back 
under  necessity  to  the  least  undesirable  spot  we  had 
noted  when  we  came  in  sight  of  a  ranch-house, 
toward  which  we  made.  In  response  to  our  hail  a 
lantern  appeared,  and  the  prompt  reply  to  our  in- 
quiry whether  we  might  put  up  there  for  the  night 
was,  "You  bet  you  can!"  Certainly  any  one  might 
bet  on  it  at  the  sound  of  that  hearty  voice.  "Why 
don't  you  fellers  throw  down  your  blankets  on  the 
hay?  I  reckon  that's  softer 'n  the  ground,"  was  the 
next  suggestion,  and  we  wanted  nothing  better.  Our 
horses  plunged  their  noses  into  the  hay,  and  we  fell 
to  preparing  our  own  supper.  But,  not  satisfied 
with  these  benefits,  our  friendly  host  or  his  kind  wife 
would  appear  every  five  minutes  with  "Can  you 
fellers  use  some  milk  for  your  coffee?"  or  "Maybe 
you  fellers  like  tomatoes?  Well,  here 's  a  dish  of  them, 
and  there 's  half  an  acre  more  over  yonder  " ;  or  some 
other  hospitable  inquiry.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had 
been  just  waiting  for  some  opportunity  to  shower 
benefits  on  wayfarers,  and  we  were  ordained  to  be 
the  fortunate  ones. 

We  slept  magnificently  on  our  ten-foot- thick  mat- 
tress, and,  the  next  day  being  Sunday,  stayed  all  day 
with  these  warm-hearted  people.  We  found  that  the 
place  was  the  old  Monserate  Ranch-House,  and  as 
our  host  had  lived  here,  boy  and  man,  for  thirty- 
eight  years,  many  were  the  tales  he  had  to  tell  of  the 
days  when  Don  Tomas  Alvarado  maintained  here 
the  traditions  of  the  grandees  of  Spanish  California, 


INTERIOR   OF   THE   CHURCH   AT   THE   MISSION   OF   SAN    ANTONIO 


ECHOES   OF   THE    PAST  37 

ruling  over  a  household  of  no  mean  dimensions,  and 
himself  ruled,  so  it  is  said,  by  the  priest  whom  he 
kept  as  a  necessary  adjunct  to  his  state.  Thirteen 
thousand  sheep,  three  thousand  head  of  cattle,  and 
three  hundred  horses  could  the  don  call  his  own  in  the 
days  of  his  prime :  yet  he  died  a  pauper,  the  victim 
of  his  own  lavish  dispensation  of  pesos. 

About  the  old  house  lingers  a  faint  essence  of  its 
past,  a  glamour  of  things  strange  and  gone  beyond 
our  ken.  A  date-palm  waves  in  languid  grace  over 
the  patio,  casting  its  fronded  shade  over  the  defaced 
walls  and  crazy  balconies :  a  few  rows  of  orange  and 
olive  trees  drop  their  starved  fruit  among  the  weeds, 
and  a  Marechal  Niel  blooms  secretly  in  a  corner  of 
the  deserted  veranda. 

The  conversation  turning  upon  game,  it  appeared 
that  this  locality  is  a  sort  of  headquarters  of  the  wild- 
cat tribe.  Two  hundred  and  fifty-five  of  these  ani- 
mals were  killed  by  our  host  and  his  neighbors  during 
two  months  of  one  prolific  year,  and  last  winter  he 
himself  had  accounted  for  nineteen  in  one  month. 
When  I  asked  gray-eyed  Edith,  who  came  with  arm- 
fuls  of  puppies  for  our  admiration,  whether  the  wild- 
cats did  not  kill  their  chickens,  the  answer  came  with 
eloquent  brevity,  "Lots."  Seventeen  skins  line  the 
walls  of  their  little  kitchen,  and  a  heap  more  lie  in  the 
unused  room  which  once  was  the  private  chapel  of 
Don  Tomas. 

Among  the  wild-cat  skins  on  the  kitchen  wall  I 
noticed  a  framed  motto.  The  words  were  "  Love  one 


38  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

another,"  and  my  last  impression  of  the  family  was 
a  delightful  commentary  upon  it.  The  toil-worn 
hand  of  the  wife  rested  on  the  shoulder  of  her  stal- 
wart husband,  who  talked  tender  nonsense  to  the 
nine-months'  morsel  of  baby  that  he  held ;  while  the 
other  three  children  played  an  uproarious  cowboy 
game  of  roping  one  another  with  a  superannuated 
riata.  There  was  no  need  to  say,  God  bless  them: 
clearly  He  does. 

The  valley  of  the  San  Luis  River  opened  before 
us  in  wide  stretches  of  pasture  and  grain  land.  Be- 
hind lay  the  long  blue  ridge  of  Palomar.  The  cool 
sea  breeze  began  to  blow  up  the  valley,  and  the  last 
gray  shred  of  fog  sank  away  into  the  intense  cobalt 
of  the  sky.  Doves  flew  from  sycamore  to  turkey- 
weed  and  from  turkey- weed  back  to  sycamore.  Buz- 
zards sailed  in  the  clear  air,  circling  with  unmoving 
wings,  and  balancing  with  easy  perfection  of  flight. 
A  handsome  young  Indian  passed  us  at  a  gallop; 
an  automobile  or  two  whizzed  by ;  a  Mexican  family 
jogged  along  in  a  buckboard ;  so  the  old  and  the  new 
California  toss  their  dust  at  one  another. 

All  the  morning  we  plodded  quietly  along,  rumi- 
nating lazily  to  the  pad,  pad,  of  the  hoofs.  After 
passing  a  minute  hamlet  called  Bonsall  Bridge,  we 
rested  for  half  an  hour  beside  the  road,  under  a 
sycamore  in  the  fresh  young  leaves  of  which  the 
horses  discovered  an  interesting  flavor.  These  road- 
side interludes  are  very  pleasant.  You  tie  your  horse 
in  the  shade,  take  off  the  bridle,  loosen  the  cinch, 


THE   GUAJOME  39 

pull  out  your  bread  and  cheese,  and  munch  it  to  the 
rustle  of  leaves  and  the  interrogative  comments  of 
hidden  birds.  The  brook  purls  along,  and  your 
thoughts  purl  along  with  it.  A  draught  of  water, 
and  then  the  careful  packing  of  the  pipe-bowl,  and 
the  first  grateful  puffs.  You  slip  the  bridle  on,  tighten 
up  the  girth,  swing  into  the  saddle,  and  ride  on  with 
one  more  little  vignette  added  to  the  many  such,  of 
which  one  is  turned  up  now  and  then  by  some  chance 
occurrence;  whereupon  there  comes  back  to  you  the 
whole  scene,  with  your  companion,  if  you  had  one, 
or  your  faithful  horse,  now  perhaps  obeying  an- 
other hand,  or  none. 

In  the  afternoon  we  diverged  a  mile  or  two  to  visit 
the  Guajome  Ranch-House,  where,  it  is  said,  Helen 
Hunt  Jackson  gathered  much  of  the  "local  color"  for 
her  famous  California  romance  of  "Ramona."  We 
found  the  place  a  particularly  sad  instance  of  the 
unworthy  fate  which  has  been  allowed  to  fall  upon 
nearly  all  these  relics  of  a  picturesque  past.  The 
ruin  of  the  Guajome  seems  more  like  the  hideous 
decay  of  a  murdered  body  than  the  peaceful  dis- 
solution which  sheds  over  most  ancient  buildings 
that  peculiar  charm  which  we  all  recognize.  Cans, 
bottles,  and  other  refuse  covered  the  floors  and  the 
broken  chairs  and  tables  of  the  rooms  we  entered; 
the  fish  pond  was  slimy  and  defiled;  the  fountain 
dry  and  shattered.  But  for  a  few  flowers  that  bloomed 
in  the  dusty  courtyard  I  could  discover  nothing  of 
attraction.    It  was  a  relief  to  turn  our  backs  upon 


4o  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  place.  As  we  rode  back  across  the  ranch  we 
passed  a  great  band  of  sheep,  and  the  barren  ground, 
ugly  as  an  ash-heap,  in  the  rear  of  the  devastating 
army  served  to  complete  the  depressing  impression. 

A  few  miles  farther  on  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey,  half  hidden  behind  a  line 
of  blue-gums.  The  Mission,  which  in  its  state  of 
partial  ruin  was  singularly  attractive,  has  lately 
been  restored,  with  the  usual  disastrous  results  from 
the  point  of  view  of  beauty.  A  barrack-like  addition 
has  been  built,  and  fascinates  the  visitor  by  its  ap- 
palling ugliness.  Our  intention  had  been  to  stay  a 
day  or  two  about  the  place,  but  we  now  laid  our 
plans  for  an  early  departure  on  the  morrow.  We  put 
up  our  horses  in  the  stable  of  a  civil  Mexican,  and 
ourselves  camped  near  by,  passing  a  night  enlivened 
with  dogs,  fleas,  and  mosquitoes,  but  with  a  conspicu- 
ous absence  of  sleep. 

By  four  o'clock  we  were  taking  the  road  by  the 
light  of  a  waning  moon  toward  Oceanside,  where  we 
arrived  with  the  sun.  Here,  for  a  novelty,  we  break- 
fasted at  a  hotel.  Sundry  small  affairs  of  business 
delayed  us  till  afternoon,  when  we  mounted  and 
pursued  our  way  to  the  south.  The  road  ran  once 
more  by  the  coast,  and  after  passing  the  village  of 
Carlsbad  lay  along  the  beach.  We  looked  forward 
with  pleasure  to  a  few  days  of  travel  again  within 
sight  of  the  sea  and  within  sound  of  its  wise,  ad- 
monitory voice. 

Already  I  found  that  this  almost  daily  companion- 


MOODS   OF   THE   SEA  41 

ship  had  given  me  a  longing  to  remain  with  it;  to  ride 
on,  far,  far  southward,  through  Mexico,  Darien, 
and  the  long  continent  of  South  America,  with  the 
monody  of  the  surges  ever  with  me,  day  and  night. 
What  a  ride  that  would  be!  And  then,  perhaps,  up 
the  other  coast  of  the  Western  world :  —  though,  on 
reflection,  I  think  not;  for,  somehow,  my  long  life 
in  the  WTest  has  weaned  me  from  my  old  preference 
for  the  Atlantic  side.  After  all,  the  West  is  finest: 
the  new,  unformed  West,  where  the  tide  of  human 
life,  that  spread  out  from  old,  secret  Asia,  comes  at 
last  full  circle,  and  is  already  beginning  to  break 
in  tumult  against  this  farthest  Wall  of  the  World. 

To-day  the  sky  was  overcast,  and  the  gray  sea 
plain  ran  to  an  indeterminate  horizon,  with  that 
curious  appearance  of  fulness  which  I  have  often 
observed  to  accompany  similar  conditions  of  sky. 
The  long  ranks  of  the  surf  crept  patiently  up  to  the 
ineffectual  siege,  forever  unconquering  but  forever 
unconquerable.  It  is  so  that  I  best  love  the  ocean, 
—  not  glittering,  garish,  with  shallow  laughter  and 
flippant  retort,  but  gray,  reticent,  resolute,  proud, 
solitary. 

W^e  entered  now  a  silent  region  where  wide  ex- 
panses of  grain  land  alternated  with  stretches  of 
brush,  and  houses  appeared  at  league-long  intervals. 
Here  we  crossed  a  wide  lagoon,  the  Agua  Hedionda 
(signifying  ill-smelling  water,  though  the  reason  for 
the  name  was  not  apparent),  which  lies  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Canon  de  los  Monos  (or  Monkey  Canon,  an- 


42  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

other  cryptic  designation).  As  we  approached  La 
Costa,  where  our  road  ran  in  company  with  the 
railroad,  it  began  to  rain  smartly.  By  good  fortune 
a  deserted  house  stood  near  by,  and  this  we  appro- 
priated to  our  uses,  eating  our  meal  on  the  veranda, 
and  finding  the  tea  no  less  cheering  for  the  fact  that 
the  well  was  inhabited  by  a  trio  of  prosperous-look- 
ing water-snakes.  The  rain  ceased  by  nightfall,  and 
we  slept  under  the  cypresses  of  the  garden  hedge. 
A  conspicuous  event  of  the  night  was  the  passage 
of  the  San  Diego  Express  at  a  distance  of  thirty 
feet  from  my  head. 


CHAPTER   IV 

Boom  towns  —  Del  Mar:  the  Torrey  pine  —  The  old  Alvarado  ranch- 
house:  an  incident  of  "the  eternal  feminine"  —  The  decay  of  the 
historic  Spanish-California  houses  —  Las  Penasquitas  Valley  and 
ranch-house  —  The  Linda  Vista  Mesa:  prospects  of  a  kangaroo 
ranch  —  Mission  Valley  —  The  Mission  of  San  Diego  —  Old 
Town  —  San  Diego,  our  southern  terminus:  bay  and  water-front 
—  The  highlands  of  Mexico  in  sight. 

OUR  route  next  day  lay  through  a  succession  of 
depressing  little  boom  towns,  whose  vacant 
stores  and  depopulated  hotels  bore  witness  to  some 
of  the  more  melancholy  attributes  of  human  char- 
acter. As  we  surveyed  the  boarded-up  windows  of 
a  "Dry  Goods  and  Notions"  establishment,  my 
companion  put  the  case  neatly  by  remarking  that 
evidently  the  fate  of  the  dry  goods  had  been  to  dry 
up,  and  the  last  and  best  of  the  notions  had  been  the 
notion  to  go  away.  Encinitas  is  the  only  one  of 
several  such  settlements  hereabouts  that  has  sur- 
vived the  unhappy  omens  of  its  birth.  New  capital, 
wisely  invested  in  roads  instead  of  hotels,  bids  fair 
to  put  this  pretty  little  town  on  a  safe  footing. 

At  San  Elijo  Canon,  where  the  Escondido 
Creek  widens  at  its  mouth  to  a  considerable  lagoon, 
the  road  crossed  by  a  strip  of  beach  on  which  breaks 
an  unusually  fine  surf,  with  line  upon  line  of  long 
white  rollers  following  each  other  in  close  succession. 
I  should  like  to  hear  a  winter  storm  beat  on  this  ex- 


44  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

posed  shore  of  shingle,  as  I  have  heard  them  on  the 
shingle  beaches  of  England,  the  wild  air  ringing  with 
the  shriek  of  the  multitudinous  pebbles  as  they  are 
driven  to  and  fro  by  the  claws  of  the  raging  sea. 
Above  thunder  of  water  and  roar  of  buffeting  wind 
the  cry  of  the  tortured  earth  rises  in  shrill  appas- 
sionato, a  magnificent  concert  of  the  elements. 

Crossing  yet  another  lagoon  at  the  mouth  of  the 
San  Dieguito  River,  we  entered  the  village  of  Del 
Mar.  A  picturesque  modern  hotel  forms  the  nucleus 
for  a  score  or  two  of  cottages  scattered  near  a  charm- 
ing beach,  and  the  locality  is  notable  to  tree-lovers 
as  being  the  home  of  the  Torrey  pine  {Pinus  torrey- 
ana),  a  tree  whose  circumscribed  habitat  makes  it 
a  botanical  curiosity.  On  the  exposed  cliff-edges 
the  wind-blown  patriarchs  of  the  little  tribe  crouch 
in  eloquent  attitudes,  and  it  was  interesting  to  note 
the  similarity  of  form  of  thjs  sea-neighboring  pine 
to  that  of  the  alpine  "white-bark  "  species  which  I 
had  seen  the  previous  summer  fighting  for  life  on  the 
other  frontier  at  two  miles  of  altitude  in  the  Sierra 
Nevada. 

We  camped  a  mile  beyond  the  town  at  a  small 
farm  whose  kind  people  gave  us  the  freedom  of 
their  pump  (no  slight  boon,  I  assure  the  non-Cali- 
fornian  reader),  and  next  day  struck  inland,  skirting 
the  Soledad  River.  The  name  of  this  stream  in  no 
wise  belies  the  solitary  character  of  the  country, 
where  the  scanty  rainfall  might  well  discourage  the 
most  optimistic  of  farmers.  I  knew  the  region  twenty 


THE    ETERNAL    FEMININE  45 

years  ago,  and  the  population  now  seemed  to  me 
more  scanty  than  I  remembered  it  at  that  time. 
Evening  found  us  at  Sorrento,  a  lonely  settlement 
consisting  of  a  store,  a  railway  station,  and  two  or 
three  houses.  Here  we  turned  eastward  and  rode  a 
mile  or  two  up  Las  Penasquitas  Canon  to  the  ranch- 
house  of  the  one-time  Alvarado  Ranch,  now  incor- 
porated in  Las  Penasquitas  Ranch,  which  formerly 
included  only  the  upper  part  of  the  valley. 

A  careworn  woman  and  two  wild-looking  boys 
were  working  in  the  dusk  near  the  house,  and  of  the 
former  we  asked  permission  to  camp  by  the  only 
available  water,  which  was  within  the  farm  enclos- 
ure. The  request  was  neither  granted  nor  denied, 
but  implicitly  discouraged.  I  make  no  claims  to 
special  penetration  of  character,  but  as  I  looked  at 
her,  and  she  looked  with  no  friendliness  at  us,  I  felt 
sure  I  could  trace  the  current  of  her  nature  and  read 
her  present  state  of  mind  only  too  plainly.  She  was 
a  young  woman,  and  rather  pretty.  As  a  girl  I  think 
she  had  been  very  pretty.  Her  dress  was  rough  and 
dirty,  though  natural  enough  to  her  masculine  em- 
ployment of  digging.  As  we  talked  I  noticed  that  she 
tried  instinctively  to  hide  her  torn  sleeves  and  disor- 
dered bodice,  and  I  thought  I  could  see  beneath  the 
inhospitable  frown  far  less  of  inhospitality  than  of 
shame  at  her  rough  dress  and  her  unfeminine  labor. 
Poor  woman!  It  was  a  trifling  incident,  a  mere  by- 
play, in  the  tragedy  of  the  eternal  feminine:  the 
tragedy  of  a  losing  struggle  for  grace  and  loveliness, 


46  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

not  only  of  dress  and  feature,  but  also,  with  them 
and  unconsciously  felt  to  be  symbolized  by  them, 
of  mind  and  character,  —  that  old,  unphilosophical, 
but  very  human  relation  of  ideas. 

I  saw  it  still  more  clearly  when  next  morning  we 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  view  the  rooms  of  the  old 
house.  Disorder,  struggle,  and  carelessness  were 
written  large  over  all ;  yet  with  a  curious  sense,  which 
I  felt  without  being  able  to  explain,  that  they  were 
hated  and  rebelled  at.  Poverty  was  written  there, 
too,  unless  I  am  vastly  mistaken;  yet  when  we  ten- 
dered payment  for  the  privilege  of  camping  it  was 
steadily  refused.  My  sister,  —  though  you  will 
hardly  see  these  words,  —  the  Spanish  has  a  good 
adage  for  such  cases,  Dios  se  lo  pagare.  I  do  not 
fear  that  you  will  be  the  poorer  for  refusing  that  coin. 

As  we  rode  away  from  the  decaying  house,  with 
its  frayed  old  date-palms  and  independent  morning- 
glories,  we  remarked  again  upon  the  discreditable 
feature  of  Western  American  life  which  is  illustrated 
by  the  condition  of  these  interesting  and  once  beau- 
tiful monuments  of  our  history.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  too  much  to  expect  that  those  who  have  succeeded 
to  the  ownership  of  the  estates  of  the  Spanish  Cali- 
fornians  should  expend  a  fraction  of  their  revenues 
upon  the  preservation  of  the  old  houses :  that  is  not 
our  way.  But  it  seems  as  if  the  State  might  well 
have  taken  sufficient  interest  in  its  own  history  to 
rescue  one  or  two  of  these  fine  old  houses  from  de- 
struction.    Even  now,  a  very  small  sum  of  public 


LAS    PENASQUITAS    VALLEY  47 

money  would  purchase  and  restore  an  example  or 
two,  and  a  mere  trifle  would  keep  them  in  repair. 
But  we  in  America  are  obsessed  with  our  particu- 
lar conception  of  Progress;  and  self-sufficiency  is 
always  a  blunder. 

Las  Penasquitas  is  a  long,  narrow  valley  threaded 
by  a  small  stream  which  in  summer  takes  refuge 
underground  from  the  thirsty  sun.  Scattered  syca- 
mores and  elders  grew  here  and  there  along  its  chan- 
nel, their  shade  already,  early  in  the  day,  preempted 
by  groups  of  cattle.  The  canon  trends  northeast, 
and  when  a  slight  rise  of  the  ground  opened  a  wider 
horizon  I  recognized  the  distant  outline  of  Cuya- 
maca  Mountain  ("Queermack,"  in  the  common 
speech),  under  whose  nearer  flank  I  had  lived  twenty 
years  before,  while  beyond  it  lay  the  home  of  my 
companion,  amid  the  glistening  sands  and  statuesque 
palms  of  the  Colorado  Desert. 

At  the  ranch-house  we  found  a  squad  of  carpen- 
ters at  work  obliterating  the  traces  of  a  recent  fire. 
The  solid  walls  of  adobe  were  intact,  which  was  for- 
tunate, since  the  art  of  building  such  is  now  almost 
gone  out  of  mind  among  the  native  population.  We 
lunched  under  a  shady  pepper,  and  early  in  the  after- 
noon resumed  our  way,  which  led  by  a  steep  road 
up  from  the  canon  to  the  south.  From  the  summit 
we  looked  out  over  a  landscape  quite  different  from 
any  we  had  yet  seen.  For  miles  to  south,  east,  and 
west  stretched  a  level  mesa,  covered  with  a  growth 
of  greasewood  brush  whose  dull  olive  was  unbroken 


48  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

but  for  the  road,  which  ran  to  the  vanishing-point 
straight  as  a  line  could  be  drawn. 

This  was  the  Linda  Vista  Mesa,  one  of  the  most 
hopeless  of  those  arid  tracts  of  land  which  under  the 
glamour  of  the  "boom"  found  ready  purchasers  at 
high  figures,  but  have  since  found  none  at  any  figure 
at  all.  The  soil  is  red  and  clayey,  not  that  good  red 
that  tells  of  the  blood  and  juices  of  the  earth,  but  a 
pale  brick  color,  malevolent  even  in  appearance.  Its 
superficial  resemblance  to  the  famous  red  soil  on 
which  some  of  the  noted  orange  groves  of  California 
are  thriving  invited  boomers  to  advertise  it  as  having 
"no  frost,  no  alkali,  no  hard-pan":  to  which  they 
should  have  added  "no  rain  (to  speak  of)  and  no 
crop."  The  ground  is  packed  with  cobblestones 
fuller  than  ever  was  pudding  of  raisins ;  while,  so  far 
from  there  being  no  hard-pan,  the  unlucky  pur- 
chasers often  found  it  necessary  to  blast  the  holes  for 
their  ill-omened  trees  in  order  to  shatter  the  rock 
that  lies  like  sheet-iron  just  below  the  surface. 

In  discussing  the  possible  uses  and  prospects  of 
this  region,  Eytel  and  I  agreed  that  upon  the  whole 
a  kangaroo  ranch  seemed  to  offer  the  best  chances 
of  success  to  an  adventurous  speculator.  Without 
any  special  knowledge  of  the  kangaroo,  we  had  a 
strong  idea  that  this  was  about  the  sort  of  thing 
that  appeals  to  that  singular  creature. 

Willingly  we  turned  our  backs  upon  the  mesa,  and 
entered  on  a  long  canon  that  bears  the  name  of  the 
great  family  of  Murphy.    Last  year  I  had  camped 


MISSION    VALLEY  49 

by  lovely  lakes  under  the  shadow  of  Murphy's 
Dome  in  the  northern  Sierras:  now  we  searched, 
and  searched  in  vain,  for  a  trickle  of  water  in 
Murphy's  Canon  at  the  uttermost  southwest  verge 
of  the  country  (for  we  were  now  within  twenty  miles 
of  the  Mexican  frontier).  We  dismounted,  and  mile 
after  mile  led  our  weary  horses  down  the  inter- 
minable grade. 

About  sundown  we  debouched  into  the  valley  of 
the  San  Diego  River,  generally  called  Mission  Valley, 
after  the  Mission  of  San  Diego,  the  remains  of  which 
stand  hereabout.  Turning  up  the  valley  for  half  a 
mile,  we  prospected  among  the  willows  and  cotton- 
woods  of  the  river-bed  for  water,  and  found  a  few 
small  pools,  standing  but  not  stagnant.  Here  we 
unsaddled  under  a  goodly  cottonwood  near  which 
was  a  space  of  fair  pasturage. 

It  was  five  weeks,  to  a  day,  since  we  had  left  El 
Monte,  and  now  we  were  practically  at  San  Diego, 
the  southern  limit  of  our  joint  expedition.  The  event 
warranted  an  uncommon  supper,  and  thereafter  we 
lay  at  ease  while  we  smoked  and  indulged  the  re- 
trospective vein.  The  sky  was  all  but  cloudless,  the 
stars  shone  cheerfully  down,  and  the  mild  and 
friendly  air  for  which  San  Diego  is  renowned  invited 
us  to  pleasant  slumber  or  equally  pleasant  reverie. 
A  vagrant  mosquito  now  and  then  sounded  his  un- 
relenting horn,  but  was  easily  discouraged  or 
quashed.  Even  while  we  praised  the  charms  of  ly- 
ing awake,  we  fell  asleep,  and  when  I  awoke,  the 


5o  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

moon,  her  last  quarter  half  spent,  looked  down  on 
me  from  a  stage  of  her  journey  that  told  me  it  was 
near  morning.  Before  it  was  daylight  the  sky  was 
overcast,  for  the  sea-fog  had  come  in  on  the  wings  of 
the  morn,  —  an  arrangement  that  is  always  agree- 
able to  me,  since  it  allows  of  breakfast  being  cooked 
without  enduring  a  superfluous  blast  of  sun.  I  con- 
fess I  find  the  manufacture  of  flapjacks  over  a  smoky 
fire,  with  a  fervent  sun  castigating  me  from  above, 
an  exercise  that  puts  too  much  strain  upon  the 
early  morning  temper. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  so  we  did  not  break 
camp.  The  peace  of  the  day  was  somewhat  dis- 
turbed by  a  promiscuous  bombardment  from  the 
sportsmen  of  San  Diego,  who  arrived  early,  and  in 
unreasonable  numbers,  to  bag  the  Mission  doves 
and  rabbits.  We  pastured  the  horses  well  out  in  the 
open  where  they  would  be  in  plain  view,  and  ourselves 
sat  in  partial  security  under  the  lee  of  a  scrap  of 
adobe  wall,  gazing  off  at  the  mellow  fragment  of 
Western  antiquity,  with  its  romantic  setting  of  wav- 
ing palms  and  black  and  silver  olives,  and  trying 
without  too  great  exertion  to  call  up  to  mind  the 
long-past  days  when  the  scene  that  now  lay  so  soli- 
tary before  us  was  busy  with  cowled  monks,  Indian 
neophytes,  and  Spanish  men-at-arms. 

Early  on  Monday  morning  we  set  off  westward 
down  the  valley,  and  came  by  the  middle  of  the 
morning  to  the  northern  suburb  of  San  Diego,  which  is 
called  Old  Town,  in  distinction  from  the  modern  city. 


OLD    TOWN,    SAN   DIEGO  51 

It  lies  at  the  head  of  the  superb  bay  of  San  Diego, 
while  the  newer  city  occupies  the  middle  sweep. 
Its  great  interest  is  the  old  mansion  of  the  Estudillo 
family,  a  good  example  of  the  early  Californian  resi- 
dence, which  has  lately  been  restored  and  is  used 
as  a  tourist  attraction.  A  small  restaurant  takes 
up  one  of  the  rooms,  where  genuine  Spanish  dishes 
are  served  by  velvet-eyed  senoritas.  We  called  for 
tamales,  believing  that  we  might  here  do  so  with 
more  confidence  than  one  can  usually  feel  when 
indulging  in  that  ingenious  article. 

A  ride  of  an  hour  brought  us  to  the  present  city 
of  San  Diego,  where  our  appearance,  long  of  hair, 
stained  with  travel,  and  somewhat  out  of  repair, 
occasioned  no  little  comment  among  idlers  on  flower- 
covered  porches  and  shady  balconies.  We  had  some 
little  difficulty,  in  these  days  of  the  all-usurping 
automobile,  in  finding  a  livery-stable,  and  I  was 
amused  at  Chino's  evident  anxiety  on  the  matter. 
He  clearly  understood  that  the  change  in  his  sur- 
roundings portended  hay,  grain,  and  convenient 
lodging  arrangements,  with  the  society  of  interesting 
strangers  of  hxS  kind,  and  he  was  naturally  eager  to 
arrive  at  the  haven.  When  at  last  we  came  to  the 
expected  wide  doorway  he  steered  promptly  and 
with  determination  for  it,  and  he  and  Billy  lost  not 
a  moment  in  attacking  the  hay,  nibbling  surrepti- 
tiously at  the  fragrant  bales  as  they  passed  to  their 
stalls. 

We  next  sought  modest  quarters  for  ourselves, 


52  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

where  the  spectacles  and  benevolent  aspect  of  the 
good  landlady  could  not  quite  disguise  her  qualms 
at  our  dusty  and  tramp-like  appearance.  Here  we 
cast  anchor,  spending  our  days  among  barbers  and 
clothiers  and  our  nights  in  tossing  on  beds  of  unac- 
customed softness.  I  had  known  the  city  twenty  years 
before,  when  it  was  drawing  its  first  bewildered 
breaths  after  the  cataclysm  of  its  boom,  and  I  had 
always  cherished  a  pleasant  feeling  for  the  place. 
Why  has  Smithville  hosts  of  friends,  while  Jonesville, 
its  twin  in  all  points  of  outward  seeming,  is  contemned 
by  all  men  as  a  blot  upon  the  geography  of  its  State? 
The  peculiar  subjectiveness  of  towns  is  a  curious 
study  in  what  one  may  call  physical  psychology. 

The  purpose  of  these  pages  does  not  require  a 
description  of  the  city,  nor  do  my  own  preferences 
lead  me  much  into  the  regions  of  statistics  and  real 
estate.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  San  Diego  is  a  prosper- 
ous, energetic  place,  which  is  rapidly  adding  to  its 
present  population  of  some  forty  thousand  contented 
people.  I  own  I  was  best  pleased  to  walk  along  the 
water-front  by  the  rows  of  little  amphibian  huts 
that  I  remembered  from  former  days.  Flowers 
bloomed  in  cans  and  boxes  all  about  these  humble 
dwellings,  and  boats  slapped  idly  on  the  water  by 
the  crazy  landing-stages.  Odors  unnamed  because 
unnamable  greeted  me  with  claims  on  my  friendly 
remembrance,  and  the  new  generation  of  water- 
front children  seemed  no  less  arch  and  engaging  than 
those  of  yore. 


THE     HIGHLANDS   OF    MEXICO      53 

Three  steamers  lay  at  the  wharves,  and  two  large 
lumber  schooners  swung  in  the  tideway.  A  knot  of 
torpedo  boats  were  anchored  on  the  Coronado 
side  of  the  bay.  Point  Loma,  famous  among  Theo- 
sophists,  stood  up  well  and  boldly,  a  worthy  head- 
land for  the  abutment  of  a  sovereign  state :  and  in  the 
south,  beyond  the  forlorn  wastes  of  National  City, 
rose  wistful  and  pale  the  blue  highlands  of  Mexico. 


CHAPTER  V 

Northward  bound  —  San  Fernando:  its  Mission  —  The  San  Fer- 
nando Valley  —  Topanga  Canon  —  Wild  flowers  —  A  wayside 
Thomas  —  The  coast  —  Dana's  opinion  of  San  Pedro  —  North- 
Westward  Ho!  —  The  Malibu:  "No  Trespassing"  —  Shoreside 
sheep  —  I  am  an  object  of  compassion  —  The  pro  and  con  of 
solitude  —  Camp  by  the  ocean-edge. 

The  middle  of  May  of  the  next  year  after  my 
expedition  with  Eytel  southward  from  Los 
Angeles  found  me  again  in  the  saddle.  This  time  I 
was  alone,  and  northward  bound.  My  appetite  for 
practical  geography  had  been  only  whetted  by  the 
fraction  I  had  seen  of  the  coast-line  of  the  State, 
and  I  felt  bound  now  to  complete  the  unit. 

I  had  the  same  horse  and  much  the  same  equip- 
ment as  before,  the  principal  difference  being  that 
to  save  weight  I  carried  no  gun,  but  instead  a  short- 
jointed  fly-rod  (which  found  frequent  use) .  Also  I 
had  had  made  a  little  tent  of  very  light  oiled  material, 
fitted  with  jointed  aluminum  poles,  the  whole  weigh- 
ing about  six  pounds.  This  was  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  the  rainy  season  might  overtake  me  before  I 
completed  the  trip.  For  a  great  part  of  the  journey 
I  did  not  carry  it  with  me,  but  had  it  sent  forward 
to  San  Francisco  ready  for  the  expected  change  of 
climate.  Again  my  starting-point  was  El  Monte, 
where  my  good  Chino  had  just  enjoyed  a  liberal 
vacation  in  pasture. 


SAN    FERNANDO  :    ITS    MISSION      55 

I  took  a  somewhat  circuitous  route  to  the  coast, 
and  for  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  I  was  willing 
to  forego  the  sight  of  that  galaxy  of  seashore  pleas- 
ure towns,  Santa  Monica,  Redondo,  Long  Beach, 
San  Pedro,  and  several  more,  which,  in  the  exuber- 
ant metaphor  of  real  estate  circulars,  "are  flung  like 
a  tribute  of  gems  at  the  feet  of  imperial  Los  Angeles" ; 
in  the  second,  I  wished  to  visit  the  Mission  of  San 
Fernando,  lying  twenty  miles  northwest  of  Los 
Angeles  and  half  as  much  more  from  my  point  of 
departure. 

I  had  a  long  ride  and  a  hot  day  for  my  start, 
and  Chino's  load  was  no  light  one.  I  rode  by  way  of 
Pasadena  and  the  Canada  which  connects  the 
San  Gabriel  and  San  Fernando  Valleys,  and  put  up 
for  the  night  at  the  little  town  of  San  Fernando.  The 
next  day  being  Sunday  I  remained  about  the  place, 
while  Chino,  in  stable,  made  industrious  preparations 
for  strenuous  days  at  hand. 

The  Mission  of  San  Fernando,  which  was  founded 
in  1797,  probably  never  had  as  great  claims  to  no- 
tice, on  the  score  of  beauty,  as  had  some  others  of 
these  interesting  monuments;  but  the  heavy  low 
building,  with  its  long  line  of  arches,  red-tiled  roof, 
and  elementary  campanile,  is  pleasing  for  its  sim- 
plicity, and  seems  appropriate  to  the  humility  of  the 
order  of  St.  Francis.  The  church  itself  is  in  ruins,  and 
shows  plain  evidences  of  the  unhallowed  industry 
of  treasure-seekers  with  crowbars.  An  old  Mexican 
now  guards  the  place,  unlocking  for  a  small  payment 


56  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

wormy  doors  with  fiddle-like  keys,  and  leading  the 
visitor  by  precarious  stairways  to  mouldy  lofts  and 
cellars,  peopled  with  shades  of  priest  and  neophyte, 
comandante  and  soldado  de  cuero. 

The  San  Fernando  Valley,  through  which  I  rode 
next  day,  is  an  example  of  those  famous  ranches  in 
which  the  lands  of  California  were  held  by  grantees 
of  the  Spanish  or  Mexican  Government.  This  was 
one  of  the  last  of  them  to  remain  unbroken,  and  was 
now  in  process  of  being  surveyed  for  selling  off  to 
settlers  of  the  new  order.  It  opened  before  me  in 
league  on  league  of  grain,  waving  ready  for  harvest, 
a  crop  to  be  measured  by  the  thousands  of  tons. 
The  landscape  flickered  under  an  ardent  sun,  and 
as  we  plodded  hour  after  hour  along  the  tedious 
straight  roads,  escorted  by  clouds  of  pungent  dust, 
I  panted  for  the  clean,  crisp  breezes  which  I  knew 
were  blowing  just  beyond  the  low  range  of  the  Santa 
Monica  Mountains  to  the  south.  No  single  tree  of- 
fered respite  of  shade,  and  the  two  or  three  ranch- 
houses  we  passed  looked  almost  hideous  in  their 
blistering  whitewash. 

Gradually  the  valley  began  to  close  in  toward  the 
west,  where  the  wooded  Simi  Hills  rose  to  meet  the 
higher  Santa  Susanas;  and  turning  at  last  south- 
ward I  struck  into  the  main  coast  road,  and  came 
by  sundown  to  the  little  village  of  Calabasas, 
drawing  rein  before  a  small  building  which  bore 
the  sign  of  the  Hunter's  Inn. 

Automobiles  were  whizzing  about  like  cockchafers, 


TOPANGA   CANON  57 

and  the  landlord,  after  a  careless  word  in  answer  to 
my  inquiry  for  board  and  lodging,  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  the  superior  order  of  travellers,  leaving  me  to 
arrange  where  and  how  I  pleased  for  both  my  horse 
and  myself.  At  the  third  request  he  condescended 
to  show  me  to  a  room,  which  made  amends  by  its 
pleasing  rusticity.  There  was  a  wren  in  occupation, 
and  a  great  oak  tapped  with  friendly  fingers  on  win- 
dow and  roof.  Supper,  when  at  last  it  came,  showed 
host  and  hostess  in  a  better  light,  so  that  conversa- 
tion ran  agreeably.  The  night  was  made  pleasant  by 
a  sound  as  of  rain  on  the  roof  from  the  drops  con- 
densed from  the  fog  by  my  sociable  oak. 

When  I  took  the  road  early  next  morning,  the  fog 
still  hung  over  the  landscape  in  wreaths  of  thought- 
ful gray  broken  to  east  and  south  by  auspicious 
gleams  of  sun.  A  superb  freshness  lay  upon  every 
leaf  and  flower,  and  the  very  stones  of  the  highway 
appeared  to  share  the  improvement.  The  road  now 
struck  directly  down  to  the  coast,  following  the  To- 
panga  Canon,  and  the  way  was  enlivened  by  a 
thread  of  water  which  grew  quickly  into  a  sizable 
brook.  I  was  impressed  by  the  ruggedness  of  the 
mountain  slopes,  which  rose  in  striking  mass  and 
contour,  and  in  places  pushed  the  road  into  a  mere 
defile,  overhung  by  precipices  of  fine  height  and  ver- 
ticality.  At  the  northern  end  of  the  canon  are  many 
neat  little  hillside  farms,  mainly  of  Mexicans,  and 
the  dust  of  the  road  was  plentifully  marked  by  the 
Bcamperings  of  children's  naked  feet. 


58  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

The  summer  was  at  its  full  of  flowers.  The  beau- 
tiful tree-poppy  grew  freely  in  many  places,  bearing 
shallow  cups  of  palest  gold  at  twice  a  man's  height. 
By  the  roadside  bloomed  the  great  golden  Mariposa 
tulip,  flecked  with  brown,  a  truly  magnificent  blos- 
som. Mountain  lilac  was  just  breaking  into  clouds  of 
fragrant  azure,  and  wild  roses,  daintily  simple, 
gleamed  from  every  thicket.  (I  always  feel  that  the 
wandering  Briton  owes  a  special  debt  to  Nature  for 
the  wide  dissemination  of  this  delightful  flower, 
which  greets  him  in  so  many  alien  lands.)  Poppies, 
mimulus,  brodiaeas,  and  many  more  added  their 
cheerful  colors  to  the  summer  show. 

There  were  few  travellers  on  the  road,  but  while 
I  stopped  to  lunch  by  a  little  stream  that  came  in  at 
a  bend  of  the  canon,  an  old  man  came  by,  driving 
a  wagon,  and  turned  in  for  the  midday  rest  at  the 
same  spot.  We  fell  into  chat  upon  such  universal 
topics  as  crops,  aeroplanes,  and  local  politics,  and 
grew  quite  cordial  over  the  Sugar  Trust.  I  saw  that 
my  friend's  attention  had  been  caught  by  Chino's 
equipment,  but  it  was  not  until  I  was  ready  to  move 
on  that  he  brought  out  the  inevitable  "Whar  you 
bound  for?"  When  I  replied  "To  Oregon,"  I  saw  a 
look  of  annoyance  come  into  his  face.  I  had  already 
found  that  my  expedition  appeared  a  formidable  one 
to  the  average  stay-at-home,  but  this  old  fellow  was 
a  frank  unbeliever.  "Whar  did  you  say?"  he  in- 
quired again,  sternly  this  time.  "Oregon,"  I  an- 
swered; "why  not?"    But  he  felt  sure  now  that  he 


DANA'S  OPINION   OF   SAN   PEDRO    59 

was  being  trifled  with,  and  the  only  response  to  my 
parting  "Good-day"  was  a  mortified  grunt. 

The  former  day's  travel  had  been  a  pretty  hard 
one  for  us  both,  and  I  determined  to  make  this  one 
correspondingly  light.  So  when  by  mid-afternoon 
we  came  near  the  mouth  of  the  canon  (as  I  knew 
by  the  distant  sound  of  breakers),  I  stopped  at  a 
little  opening  and  pitched  camp.  The  stream  con- 
tained some  fair-sized  trout,  and  a  half-hour's  fishing 
produced  my  supper.  A  ruminative  evening  by  the 
camp-fire  closed  the  day.  I  turned  in  betimes,  and 
lay  once  more,  as  many  times  last  year,  listening  to 
the  murmur  of  the  sea,  which  was  now  again  to  be 
my  great  monologuist  for  perhaps  half  a  year. 

I  was  astir  by  first  daylight,  and  was  early  on  the 
way  to  the  mouth  of  the  canon.  As  I  reached  the  top 
of  a  little  rise,  the  roar  of  the  sea  close  by  met  me 
with  a  sort  of  boisterous  friendliness,  like  the  wel- 
come of  some  tremendous  mastiff.  Looking  east- 
ward from  the  cliff  on  which  I  stood,  I  could  see  the 
long  wharf  at  Santa  Monica,  and,  beyond,  a  long 
curve  of  shore  that  ran  to  the  Palos  Verdes  and  the 
promontory  of  Point  Fermin.  Beyond  that  lay  the 
town  of  San  Pedro,  detested  of  Dana,  who  in  1835 
reported  it  as  being  "universally  called  the  hell  of 
California,"  and  who  himself  wrote  of  it  that  "This 
rascally  hole  of  San  Pedro  is  unsafe  in  every  wind 
but  a  southwester,  which  is  seldom  known  to  blow 
more  than  once  in  half  a  century."  Now,  three 
quarters  of  a  century  later,  the  "rascally  hole"  is 


60  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

in  process  of  becoming  a  great  port,  with  a  much 
wider  range  of  interests  than  the  shipping  of  "Cali- 
fornia bank-notes  "  (as  Dana  calls  the  hides  which 
formed  the  return  cargo  of  the  Pilgrim).  Turning 
to  the  west,  my  eye  followed  the  long  reaches  of 
broken  cliff  along  which  ran  my  road,  until  the  land 
view  was  closed  by  the  low  yellow  cape  of  Point 
Dume. 

I  lingered  here  a  few  minutes  while  I  enjoyed  the 
occasion,  for  here  my  northern  coast  trip  was  actu- 
ally to  begin.  It  seemed  in  a  modest  way  momentous 
to  be  turning  my  face  northward  and  westward; 
and  I  surveyed  in  fancy  the  long  leagues  of  coast 
which  I  was  to  travel,  to  where,  instead  of  languid 
dunes  and  sunburned  brush,  I  should  ride  by  stal- 
wart cliffs  and  through  stately  alleys  of  forest.  There 
was  deep  pleasure  in  the  prospect.  Thoreau  says 
that  the  southwest  was  his  point  of  inclination  for 
travel,  and  enlarges,  in  his  ingenious  way,  upon  the 
reasons  for  his  preference.  For  me  it  is  always  the 
northwest  that  captures  my  imagination.  "The 
West  is  but  another  name  for  the  Wild,"  Thoreau 
remarks;  and  in  the  same  fanciful  way  the  North 
seems  to  me  somehow  to  signify  the  Noble.  Was 
not  the  Northwest  Passage  always  a  natural  goal 
for  enterprise  and  gallantry?  Farewell,  then,  I  said, 
land  of  the  South  and  sea  of  the  South ;  and  welcome 
the  ultimate  West,  and  the  dark,  the  gray,  the  soli- 
tary North. 

My  Chino,  meanwhile,  free  from  such  unpracti- 


THE    MALIBU  :  NO    TRESPASSING     61 

cal  abstractions,  was  employing  his  leisure  with  the 
cliffside  herbage.  He  is  an  engaging  creature,  and 
we  had  many  sentiments,  and  even  conversations, 
together,  sharing  confidences  upon  the  quality  of  the 
water,  or  the  state  of  the  roads,  and  other  such 
matters  of  mutual  interest.  Automobiles,  naturally, 
were  often  a  topic,  and  I  may  say  that  Chino's  views 
on  that  subject,  which  may  easily  be  guessed,  were 
quite  my  own. 

Turning,  then,  westward,  a  few  miles  of  pleasant 
road  brought  us  to  the  entrance  to  the  Malibu 
Ranch,  a  long  strip  of  land  lying  between  the  south- 
ward-facing foothills  of  the  Santa  Monica  Moun- 
tains and  the  shore.  At  the  gate  was  posted  a  warn- 
ing that  Trespassing  was  Strictly  Prohibited.  I  knew 
that  public  right  of  way  through  the  ranch  had  long 
been  contested  by  the  owners,  and  I  had  been  warned 
that  I  might  find  my  way  disputed  by  their  myrmi- 
dons with  shotguns.  But  there  was  nothing  except 
the  passive  placard  to  prevent  my  entering,  and  I 
passed  in  with  little  doubt  of  making  an  equally 
peaceable  exit  at  the  western  end. 

On  a  limb  of  a  sycamore  that  overhung  the  road 
a  large  cross  was  roughly  cut.  It  marks  the  place  of 
one  of  the  many  commonplace  tragedies  of  early 
California  days.  Some  horsethief,  name  now  un- 
known, was  hanged  there.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
to  say,  some  alleged  horsethief,  for  mistakes  no 
doubt  occurred  on  occasions  when  somebody  had  to 
hang,  and  quickly,  too;  and  when  Justice,  playing 


62  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

a  sort  of  hide-and-seek,  might  let  her  sword  fall  sud- 
denly upon  any  member  of  the  free-and-easy  com- 
munity, who  was  so  unwise  as  to  get  in  the  way. 

The  hard  sand  beach  here  offered  a  tempting  road 
along  the  water's  edge,  and  I  turned  Chino  down  to 
it.  He  was  a  little  averse  at  first  to  facing  the  burst 
of  the  rollers  and  stepping  into  the  hissing  froth,  but 
he  soon  caught  the  idea,  and  with  arched  neck  and 
gay  bearing  splashed  through  the  wash  of  the  break- 
ers, and  kicked  the  creamy  fans  of  water  into  spark- 
ling showers. 

I  had  seen  only  one  or  two  people  on  the  road  that 
day,  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  quite  the  only  tres- 
passers, until  I  saw  a  mass  of  whitish  objects  ap- 
proaching and  heard  a  new  sound  mingling  with  the 
lazy  booming  of  the  sea.  As  we  came  nearer  I  saw 
that  it  was  a  band  of  sheep,  which  were  being  driven 
along  the  beach  by  a  mounted  Mexican,  aided  by 
dogs.  It  seemed  odd  to  see  these  pastoral  creatures 
marching  composedly  along  on  Neptune's  frontier, 
nibbling  at  seaweed,  their  voices  rising  in  plaintive 
crescendo  above  the  recitative  of  the  surf. 

A  splendid  ram  walked  with  immense  dignity  at 
the  head  of  the  flock,  his  long  fleece  quivering  as  he 
stepped,  like  that  great  beard  of  the  Prophet  by 
which  good  Mussulmans  swear.  The  herder  rode 
behind  on  a  lively  broncho.  We  stopped  to  pass  a 
few  words,  and  I  learned  that  he  and  his  band  had 
come  down  the  coast  over  a  hundred  miles,  and  were 
bound  for  the  neighborhood  of  San  Juan  Capistrano, 


I    AM    AN    OBJECT   OF    COMPASSION    63 

nearly  as  far  still  to  the  south.   The  mention  of  my 
own  destination  excited  his  pity. 

"Ah!  it  makes  much  cold  there.  I  have  heard  that 
it  rains  always;  is  it  not  true?" 

I  explained  that  it  was  not  quite  so  bad  as  that ; 
but  he  still  gazed  at  me  with  compassion,  and  re- 
joined with  a  shrug,  — 

"  Huy !  not  to  see  ever  the  sun !  And  the  fruits  and 
the  good  wine  do  not  grow  there !  Huy !  such  a  coun- 
try!   I  should  not  like  it." 

His  sheep  had  left  him  far  behind  while  we  talked, 
and  he  now  said  Adios,  and  turned  to  overtake 
them.  But  as  he  rode  away  he  still  shook  his  head 
over  the  thought  of  a  country  where  it  rained  al- 
ways, and  the  good  wine  could  not  grow. 

The  promontory  of  Point  Dume,  like  a  flattened 
turret,  stands  well  out  to  the  south  about  midway 
of  the  Malibu.  Here  the  road  bent  inland  for  a  mile 
or  two,  but  soon  again  came  down  to  the  shore. 
Frequent  canons,  each  of  them  carrying  a  small 
stream  of  water,  broke  the  seaward  slope  of  the  moun- 
tains. Evening  was  drawing  near  when  I  found  my- 
self at  the  Trancas  Canon,  at  the  mouth  of  which 
lies  a  small  brackish  lagoon.  Here  I  found  a  good 
camping-place  under  a  great  tent-like  sycamore. 
Orioles  supplied  my  supper  with  music;  and  a  night 
of  balmy  airs,  with  the  drowsy  rumble  of  breakers 
not  a  hundred  yards  away,  rounded  off  a  highly 
pleasant  day. 

The  first  sound  of  the  morning  was  the  wild  cry 


64  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

of  gulls  as  they  quarrelled  over  breakfast.  As  I  atf 
my  solitary  flapjacks  I  was  half  inclined  to  wish 
that  it  had  been  possible  for  me  also  to  quarrel  with 
somebody;  but  the  presence  of  Chino,  grazing  hard 
by,  allayed  the  loneliness  for  me,  as  I  hope  mine  did 
for  him.  We  were  early  on  our  march,  following  the 
shore  under  a  bright  morning  sun.  I  could  see,  a 
few  miles  out,  a  white  steamer  making  eastward, 
and  waved  my  good-morning  to  the  passengers  who, 
I  took  for  granted,  were  gazing  toward  me,  though 
not  exactly  at  me,  from  over  the  side. 

The  road  lay  alternately  along  the  beach  and  the 
cliff,  where  yuccas  bloomed  plentifully  among  the 
brush.  These  white-burnoosed  Arabs  looked  out  of 
place  standing  here  within  stone's  throw  of  the 
ocean,  and  their  exotic  scent  mingled  strangely  with 
the  sharp  tang  of  seaweed.  Now  we  pushed  through 
thickets  of  head-high  mustard  that  dusted  us  with 
yellow;  next,  sunflowers  stared  at  us  eye  to  eye; 
and  again,  lavender  sage  refreshed  us  with  fugi- 
tive dashes  of  perfume.  The  rattle  of  machinery 
came  faintly  to  me,  and  I  could  see  the  mower  and 
his  team  creeping  along  high  up  on  the  hillside  a 
mile  away.  It  was  far  too  heavenly  a  day  for  one 
to  be  in  a  hurry,  and  I  dismounted  and  removed 
Chino's  bridle,  leaving  him  at  liberty  to  saunter  and 
graze  while  I  sauntered  and  praised.  Only  here  and 
there  a  clump  of  thorny  cactus  obtruded  a  sugges- 
tion of  evil.  I  suppose  that  cactus  may  have  been 
unknown  before  the  Fall. 


CAMP  BY  THE  OCEAN-EDGE        65 

One  of  the  compensations  to  be  set  against  the 
lack  of  a  companion  was  that  I  was  free  to  stop  or 
proceed,  hurry  or  delay,  camp  here  or  there,  entirely 
at  my  own  choice  (only  having  regard  to  my  horse's 
needs  as  to  forage).  So  when,  early  in  the  afternoon, 
I  came  to  an  attractive  little  stream  that  ran  in  a 
deep  canon  rilled  with  sycamores  and  wind-blown 
oaks,  I  paused  and  considered.  The  brook  chattered 
happily  over  the  rocks  of  the  beach  until  it  met  the 
sea,  like  the  sudden  cutting-off  of  the  life  of  a  child. 
Close  by  it  was  a  triangle  of  clean  sand,  littered  with 
driftwood;  and  near  at  hand  there  was  a  space  of 
good  fodder.  It  is  not  always  that  things  arrange 
themselves  so  propitiously:  I  could  make  camp  not 
twenty  yards  from  the  very  verge  of  the  ocean.  The 
opportunity  was  not  to  be  missed.  I  got  my  little 
tent  pitched  in  spite  of  a  strong  breeze  which  showered 
me  with  flying  sand;  and  then  spent  a  lazy  after- 
noon in  the  society  of  the  gulls,  my  loquacious  little 
brook,  and  the  indolent  roar  of  breakers. 

The  wind  increased  during  the  evening  to  a  point 
that  made  a  camp-fire  something  more  than  a  lux- 
ury; so  I  started  a  noble  blaze  and  humbly  emulated 
the  poet  with  his  "  Fire  of  Driftwood."  I  found,  too, 
that  my  little  shelter,  like  his  "farmhouse  old  .  .  . 
gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold,  an  easy  en- 
trance." 

Sand  makes  one  of  the  least  desirable  of  sleep- 
ing places,  and  all  night  I  was  consciously  or  sub- 
consciously aware  of  the  thunder  of  the  waves  close 


66  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

by.  Once  or  twice  I  heard  the  spray  rattling  like 
hail  on  the  tent,  or  the  hiss  of  the  sea-froth  as  it 
washed  far  up  on  the  beach  and  then  sank  away 
into  the  sand.  I  had  picketed  Chino  in  a  more  shel- 
tered spot  fifty  yards  away,  and,  blanketed  warmly, 
I  think  he  passed  the  night  quite  as  comfortably  as 
his  master. 

I  was  up  at  four  o'clock,  and  broke  camp  early. 
The  breeze  was  strong  and  keen,  and  an  inexhaust- 
ible freshness  was  in  the  air,  as  if  the  world  had  been 
created  within  the  week.  Gulls  and  pelicans  were 
fishing  busily,  and  on  the  horizon  two  faint  smudges 
marked  where  steamers  were  passing.  After  a  few 
miles  more  of  alternate  shore  and  cliff,  we  crossed  the 
line  into  Ventura  County,  and  at  the  same  time 
bade  adieu  to  the  Malibu  and  its  cantankerous  but 
futile  placards. 


CHAPTER  VI 

An  inland  trail  —  Strange  country:  downs  and  combes  —  Boney 
Mountain  —  Friendly  Mexicans  again  —  Sycamore  Canon  — 
Sunday  in  camp  —  A  night  disturbance  —  Oak-glades  —  The 
Santa  Barbara  Channel  Islands  in  view  —  The  resting-place  of 
Cabrillo  —  Hueneme:  a  moribund  town  —  Oxnard,  "the  hated 
rival"  —  An  embarrassing  companion  —  Ventura:  its  Mission  — 
San  Buenaventura:  nasturtiums  and  simplicity. 

The  broken  country  which  had  lain  to  the  north  of 
the  road  began  now  to  come  down  to  the  shore, 
and  the  road  soon  struck  inland  up  Little  Sycamore 
Canon.  I  studied  the  coast  beyond  with  a  view  to 
travelling  by  the  beach  if  possible.  A  high  bluff 
coast,  much  broken,  ran  for  a  few  miles  to  the  north- 
west, culminating  in  the  fine  headland  of  Laguna 
Peak,  which  rises  in  striking  profile  to  a  height  of 
fourteen  hundred  feet.  The  cliffs  rose  high  and  steep 
from  water's  edge,  and  I  knew,  moreover,  that  just 
beyond  lay  the  Mugu  Lagoon  and  a  long  stretch 
of  sea-level  sand  and  marshland  where  it  would  be 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  travel  on  horseback. 
So  I  turned  into  the  canon  to  find  a  trail  by  which 
I  might  cross  the  mountains  and  come  down  into 
the  valley  of  the  Santa  Clara. 

The  canon  was  pleasant  with  shade  of  oak  and 
sycamore,  and  vocal  with  murmur  of  stream  and 
sprightly  voices  of  many  birds.  It  soon  narrowed 
to  a  defile,  and  the  road  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  but 


68  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

no  sign  of  trail  appeared.  I  felt  sure  there  must  be 
a  route  across  this  narrow  belt  of  mountains,  and  I 
knew  also  that  it  could  be  but  little  travelled.  After 
half  an  hour  of  search  I  found  faint  indications  of  a 
trail  leading  off  to  the  west.  With  some  misgivings 
I  turned  into  it,  hauling  my  reluctant  companion 
up  a  steep  mountain-side,  slippery  with  short  dry 
grass.  The  track  was  hardly  discernible,  and  was 
so  confused  with  cattle  paths  that  I  was  often  in 
doubt  whether  I  was  on  it  or  off.  The  hillside  was 
hot  and  shadeless,  and  as  we  panted  and  perspired 
up  the  ascent  we  both,  I  think,  wished  ourselves 
trespassers  again  on  the  Malibu,  with  its  fresh  shore 
breezes  and  plentiful  cool  streams. 

For  two  hours  we  toiled  on  and  up,  with  frequent 
stops  for  breath  and,  on  my  part,  admiration.  The 
country  was  strange  and  un-Californian.  In  all  my 
wanderings  through  this  varied  State  I  had  seen 
no  other  region  of  this  kind.  It  reminded  me  con- 
stantly of  the  downs  of  southern  England,  only  that 
the  hills  were  higher  and  steeper.  The  short  sodded 
grass  might  well  have  been  the  "wise  turf"  of  Kip- 
ling's "Sussex,"  but  for  the  castilleias,  azuleas,  and 
yellow  poppies  which  thinly  sprinkled  it,  and  occa- 
sional yuccas  shooting  up  from  the  small  islands  of 
brush.  Now  and  then  a  distant  glimpse  of  ocean 
far  below  confirmed  the  resemblance,  or  some  deeply 
cut  canon  carried  the  mind  a  little  farther  afield  to 
the  combes  of  Dorset  or  Devon. 

When  the  trail  had  climbed  to  a  height  of  fifteen 


BONEY    MOUNTAIN  69 

hundred  feet,  there  opened  a  still  more  striking 
landscape.  Near  by  to  the  north  rose  the  fine 
shape  of  Boney  Mountain,  its  highest  crags  hidden 
in  dragging  mists;  and  far  in  the  distance  a  high 
blue  range  marked  the  Topatopa  and  Pine  Moun- 
tain country  beyond  the  Santa  Clara  River.  More 
to  the  west,  blue  with  summer  haze,  the  wide  valley 
stretched  away  to  the  Pacific,  and  between  lay  the 
expanse  of  rough,  brushy  hills  through  which  I  had 
to  find  a  way. 

It  was  getting  toward  evening  when,  still  follow- 
ing as  best  I  could  the  elusive  trail,  I  noticed  on  the 
hillside  a  little  fenced  pasture  in  which  three  horses 
were  grazing.  Evidently  there  was  a  farm  near  by; 
and  going  over  to  investigate  I  saw  some  culti- 
vated land  lying  in  a  narrow  valley  not  far  from  a 
thousand  feet  almost  perpendicularly  below.  As 
the  trail  seemed  to  bear  away  from  the  place,  I  aban- 
doned it,  and,  leading  Chino,  made  the  best  of  my 
way  down  to  the  valley.  At  the  bottom  I  found  a 
small  stream,  and,  both  of  us  being  pretty  well  tired 
out,  I  deferred  visiting  the  ranch  until  the  morning 
and  made  camp  for  the  night. 

Half  an  hour  next  morning  brought  us  to  the 
ranch.  From  the  chorus  of  dogs  which  hailed  our 
approach  I  guessed  the  owners  to  be  Mexicans, 
though  the  land  showed  more  careful  farming  than 
those  people  of  the  non-strenuous  life  usually  at- 
tempt. I  was  right.  Under  a  shady  live-oak  I  found 
a  handsome  old  Mexican  who  was  smearing  with 


yo  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

butter  a  number  of  little  Spanish  cheeses,  more  of 
which  were  drying  on  a  platform  built  among  the 
branches  of  the  oak  tree  overhead.  The  old  man 
was  very  deaf,  and  it  required  all  my  Spanish  and 
my  breath  to  introduce  myself  and  explain  my  pres- 
ence, which  plainly  surprised  him.  In  reply,  I 
learned  that  he  was  the  owner  of  the  place,  Jesus 
Serrano  by  name,  and  I  was  invited  to  tie  up  my 
horse  and  rest;  the  old  gentleman  insisting  that  I 
take  his  chair,  while  he  made  shift  with  a  saw-buck. 
A  young  man  leading  a  saddled  horse  now  ap- 
peared, introduced  himself  as  Francisco  Serrano,  and 
subsided  on  the  ground  for  a  chat.  When  they  heard 
that  I  had  camped  so  near  them,  they  asked  why  I 
had  not  come  to  the  ranch  and  stayed  with  them 
for  the  night,  saying  that  they  had  plenty  of  room 
and  hay.  I  found  later  that  the  plentiful  house- 
room  consisted  of  two  small  cabins,  each  contain- 
ing a  single  bed ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  either 
of  them  would  as  a  matter  of  course  have  slept  on 
the  bare  floor  in  order  to  accommodate  an  entire 
stranger.  Such  is  the  instinctive  kindness  of  these 
people,  whom  it  is  the  fashion  to  condemn  for  the 
lack  of  some  far  less  excellent  virtues.  I  passed  a 
very  pleasant  hour  with  them,  and  when  I  rose  to 
go  the  son  offered  to  put  me  on  a  cut-off  trail  that 
would  save  me  some  miles.  The  old  gentleman  pre- 
sented me  with  one  of  his  cheeses,  explaining  that 
I  must  eat  it  with  chili,  and  should  find  it  good  for 
the  health.    Francisco  slung  a  rifle  to  his  saddle, 


SYCAMORE    CANON  71 

and,  escorted  by  half  a  dozen  eager  dogs,  we 
rode  away. 

The  trail  was  down  the  canon  and  mainly  in  the 
bed  of  the  stream.  My  guide  splashed  and  clattered 
ahead,  pointing  out  here  and  there  the  scene  of  some 
episode  of  wild-cat,  coyote,  or  mountain-lion.  He 
had  an  eye  for  the  flowers,  too,  and  often  drew  my 
attention  to  some  clump  of  fragrant  ceanothus  or 
wild  rose,  or  bush  of  tolldn  (the  Christmas  holly  of 
California),  at  that  season  in  full  summer  glory 
of  white.  When  he  had  put  me  well  on  my  way 
my  companion  bade  me  good-bye  and  turned 
back. 

I  was  soon  in  the  main  Sycamore  Canon.  The 
road  marked  on  my  map  was  nothing  more  than  a 
fair  trail,  and  I  doubt  whether  wagon  had  ever 
passed  that  way.  A  good  stream  ran  among  the 
boulders,  and  there  was  pasturage  in  plenty:  so 
though  it  was  still  early  I  resolved  to  camp  and  de- 
vote the  remainder  of  the  day  to  the  cooking  of 
beans,  that  invaluable  ration  of  the  Western  trav- 
eller. 

The  next  day  also,  being  Sunday,  I  passed  in  camp, 
with  Chino's  full  concurrence.  Now  and  again  a 
few  cattle  strayed  by,  but  otherwise  the  solitude 
was  unbroken.  At  night  an  alarm  was  caused  by 
some  nocturnal  visitor.  Chino,  who  was  staked 
near  by  where  I  slept,  awoke  me  by  snorting  and 
rearing  in  great  excitement.  I  got  into  my  boots 
and  made  a  circuit  of  the  camp  with  my  revolver, 


72  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

but  was  unable  to  find  the  cause  of  the  disturbance 
—  probably  a  roaming  wild-cat  or  mountain-lion. 
Such  incidents  are  annoying,  and  thereafter  at  night 
I  kept  my  revolver  handy  in  my  boot-leg,  close  to 
my  head. 

Morning  brought  in  one  of  those  particularly  per- 
fect days  that  remain  in  one's  memory  like  the  spe- 
cial incidents  of  childhood,  or  one's  best  catch  of 
trout.  The  sky  was  softly  clouded,  the  air  moist 
and  gentle,  and  the  trees  wore  that  half-smiling, 
half-pensive  look  that  makes  one  wonder  if  they 
have  not  some  faculty  of  enjoyment,  or  even  remem- 
brance. We  moved  leisurely  along  under  a  leafy 
screen  of  oaks  whose  black  stems  leaned  in  pictorial 
attitudes  across  softly  lighted  vistas  of  open  canon. 
Birds    flitted   quietly  about,    unhurried,   like    us. 
Against  the  sky-line  of  the  high,  smooth  hills  tiny 
cattle  were  placidly   grazing.   Here  and   there   a 
white  sycamore  showed  conspicuously  among  the 
oaks,  whose  rounded  tops,  valanced  with  Spanish 
moss,  cast  a  tragic  darkness  over  the  brook.   The 
creek  lay  in  pools,  its  quietude  deepening  the  dreami- 
ness of  the  scene  and  the  morning.    It  was  one  of 
those  days  when  one  expects  something  fine  and  un- 
usual to  happen,  —  a  storm,  for  instance,  though  at 
this  season  that  would  be  almost  out  of  the  question. 
If  it  had  been  a  few  centuries  earlier,  and  in  Europe 
instead  of  America,  Sir  Tristram  de  Somethynge 
might  have  come  riding  along  one  of   those  green 
glades,  bound  on  some  errand  of  joyous  peril.   With 


THE   RESTING-PLACE  OF   CABRILLO     73 

this  in  mind,  a  glance  at  Chino,  with  his  panoply  of 
comfortable  saddle-bags  and  blankets,  was  almost 
comic. 

The  trail,  which  had  risen  gradually,  now  crossed 
a  divide  between  two  high  grassed  hills,  and  I 
looked  out  upon  the  open  valley,  chequered  in  dark 
green  of  beets  and  pale  gold  of  stubble,  running  level 
to  the  sea,  six  or  eight  miles  away.  Fifteen  or 
twenty  miles  out  to  the  west  lay  a  group  of  rocky 
islands,  the  nearest  one  an  odd  conglomeration  of 
spikes  and  splinters,  the  others  more  formal  in  out- 
line. They  were  the  Santa  Barbara  Channel  Is- 
lands, Anacapa,  Santa  Cruz,  Santa  Rosa,  and  San 
Miguel.  Somewhere  on  the  last-named  (which  is 
the  most  westerly)  is  the  resting-place  of  the  brave 
navigator  Juan  Rodriguez  Cabrillo,  who,  only  fifty 
years  after  Columbus's  epoch-making  voyage, 
coasted  far  up  "the  Calif ornias,"  to  die,  as  he  was 
returning,  on  this  lonely  outpost  of  the  wonderful 
new  world. 

With  a  backward  glance  at  the  fine  shape  of  Boney 
Mountain,  his  crags  still  attractively  shrouded  in  a 
mystery  of  cloud,  I  started  down  the  steep  descent. 
The  trail  soon  broadened  to  a  wagon-road,  and  be- 
fore long  I  rode  out  on  the  rich  farming  land  of  the 
Guadalasca  Ranch.  To  this  succeeded  a  long, 
straight  county  road,  bordered  by  prosperous  fields 
of  beans  and  beets,  the  staples  of  the  county ;  and 
in  due  time  we  entered  the  sleepy  little  coast  vil- 
lage of  Hueneme,  where  I  put  up  my  horse  at  the 


74  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

decaying  livery-stable,  and  found  clean  and  simple 
quarters  for  myself  at  the  village  inn. 

Hueneme  is  the  ghost  of  a  once  flourishing  town. 
On  its  one  business  street  the  vacant  stores,  with 
their  hopeless  signs  of  To  Rent,  stand  ranked  in 
shabby  idleness,  like  a  row  of  blind  beggars.  Not 
very  many  years  ago  this  was  a  lively  little  port; 
but  a  beet-sugar  factory  sprang  into  existence  a  few 
miles  to  the  north,  and  that,  with  its  joint  advant- 
age of  a  railway,  was  too  much  for  Hueneme.  The 
greater  part  of  the  population  and  not  a  few  of  the 
houses  themselves  made  off  bodily  to  the  new  cen- 
tre, and  left  Hueneme  nothing  to  boast  of  but  its 
smooth,  clean  beach  and  its  busy  past,  during  which 
(as  a  gloomy  citizen  assured  me)  the  place  had  been 
the  scene  of  as  much  traffic  as  "any  other  two 
blamed  towns  of  the  county."  Now,  only  one  small 
coasting  steamer  calls  at  long  intervals,  and  occa- 
sionally a  lumber  schooner  puts  in  with  its  fragrant 
load  from  the  northern  forests,  while  a  stage  carries 
scanty  mails  and  infrequent  passengers  over  to  the 
railway  at  Oxnard,  "the  hated  rival." 

Still,  the  place  has  an  air  of  restfulness  which  is 
pleasant,  even  though  it  be  involuntary;  and,  more- 
over, it  has  a  lighthouse,  —  a  modest  wooden  build- 
ing, but,  like  all  lighthouses,  a  fascinating  object. 
As  I  stood  on  the  shore  in  the  dusk,  and  watched 
the  steady  beam  of  light  streaming  out  over  the 
gray  wash  of  the  ocean,  there  seemed  something 
godlike  in  its  kindly  vigilance.    All  night  it  shone 


AN    EMBARRASSING    COMPANION     75 

into  the  little  room  where  I  slept,  throwing  its  moon- 
like gleam  every  few  seconds  upon  the  white  wall 
beside  my  bed. 

The  next  day  was  some  holiday,  —  Decoration 
Day,  I  think,  —  and  the  Huenemans,  throwing  care 
away,  were  early  astir  and  off  on  a  picnic.  When  I 
went  to  the  stable  for  Chino,  I  found  him  and  the 
stable  cat  in  solitary  possession.  I  saddled  up  and 
rode  on  toward  Oxnard,  taking  the  main  road  due 
north  instead  of  trying  to  keep  the  coast,  having 
been  warned  of  possible  trouble  with  quicksand  if  I 
should  try  to  ford  the  Santa  Clara  River.  Oxnard 
also  was  on  holiday,  and  all  the  stores  were  closed 
except  those  of  the  indefatigable  Orientals  and,  for- 
tunately, that  of  an  Armenian  shoemaker  whose  ser- 
vices I  required.  A  Japanese  girl  in  kimono  and 
slippers  was  sitting  on  the  sill  of  a  doorway  that 
opened  on  an  upper  veranda,  daintily  smoking  a 
gilded  porcelain  pipe. 

Riding  on  toward  Ventura  after  a  short  stay,  I 
was  overtaken  by  a  young  Oxnardian  in  a  buggy, 
whose  curiosity  over  my  outfit  led  him  to  check  his 
speed  and  enter  into  conversation.  I  was  glad  of 
company,  and  we  rode  a  few  miles  side  by  side.  At 
the  village  of  El  Rio  he  begged  me  to  look  after  his 
horse  for  a  moment,  and  vanished  round  a  corner. 
Twenty  minutes  passed  without  his  returning,  and  I 
was  just  starting  in  search  when  I  saw  him  approach- 
ing with  a  peculiar  smile  and  gait  and  an  armful  of 
bottled  beer.    As  his  horse  was  a  spirited  one  and 


76  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  man  was  half  intoxicated,  it  seemed  necessary 
for  some  one  to  keep  an  eye  on  him  in  the  interests  of 
the  public  safety.  I  resisted  his  pressing  invitation 
to  get  in  and  drive  with  him,  but  kept  alongside  and 
awaited  developments. 

They  came  quickly,  as  he  emptied  the  bottles  at 
a  lively  rate;  but  he  obligingly  took  no  offence  at 
my  refusing  to  share  them  with  him.  His  driving 
soon  became  erratic,  and  when  he  had  twice  narrowly 
escaped  driving  into  the  ditch  and  once  into  an  au- 
tomobile, I  proposed  that  he  let  me  take  the  lines 
and  drive  him  into  Ventura,  his  destination.  Rather 
to  my  surprise  he  agreed  to  this,  but  only,  he  was 
good  enough  to  say,  because  he  considered  me  in  the 
light  of  a  close  friend,  for  no  one  but  himself  had  ever 
driven  Ginger.  I  tied  Chino  behind  the  buggy  and 
got  in,  and  before  long  he  was  sufficiently  lost  to  his 
interests  to  allow  of  my  dropping  the  remaining 
bottles  overboard  as  we  crossed  the  river,  and  I  was 
at  liberty  to  enjoy  the  evening  beauty  of  shadow  on 
the  mountains  near  by  to  the  north,  while  he  slum- 
bered peacefully  at  my  side. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  outskirts  of  Ventura,  I 
stopped,  shook  my  companion  with  some  violence, 
and  asked  him  whether  he  thought  he  was  capable 
of  driving.  He  replied  with  indignation  that  he  had 
been  driving  all  the  time,  and  that  I  must  not  think 
that  I  could  "guy"  him:  but  ended  by  declaring 
that  I  was  "a  good  feller,"  and  giving  me  the  name 
of  a  hotel  in  town  where  the  knowing  ones  among 


VENTURA  77 

"the  boys"  put  up,  and  to  which  the  mention  of  his 
name  would  procure  me  admission.  As  he  seemed 
really  pretty  sober,  I  thought  he  might  be  trusted  to 
escape  trouble;  so,  declining  an  urgent  invitation  to 
drink  out  of  an  empty  bottle,  I  bade  him  good-bye 
and  struck  into  town  by  a  cross-road. 

Ventura  is  a  modest  little  city  of  some  three  thou- 
sand people.  Though  it  is  the  county  seat  of  a  pros- 
perous county  it  has  never  seriously  attempted  to 
compete  with  the  other  cities  of  the  south  for  pre- 
eminence, nor  any  eminence  at  all  except  that  of 
natural  attractions  and  steady,  well-ordered  pro- 
gress. The  people  who  live  in  its  pretty  cottages  en- 
joy, on  the  whole,  as  I  judged,  the  continual  feast  of 
a  contented  mind,  speaking  well  of  their  city,  but 
without  that  undue  fanfaronade  which,  like  the  vol- 
uble wiles  of  a  street  fakir,  does  but  warn  the  judi- 
cious of  danger.  Its  situation  certainly  is  super-ex- 
cellent, by  the  shore  of  a  summery  sea  and  yet  at 
the  very  foot  of  picturesque  mountains,  which,  at 
this  season,  were  just  dusted  over  with  the  gold  of 
the  wild  mustard.  A  fine  stream  flows  into  the  sea 
at  the  western  edge  of  the  city,  and  from  May  to 
October  the  breakfast  tables  of  Ventura  need  never 
go  troutless. 

The  place  has  some  little  historic  attraction,  too, 
for  here  in  1782  was  founded  the  Mission  of  that 
comfortable-sounding  saint,  Buenaventura.  It  was 
not  one  of  the  handsomest  of  the  Missions,  but  it 
was  never  allowed   to  fall  into  disrepair,  and  now 


78  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

provides  a  dignified  and  interesting  place  of  worship 
for  the  Catholics  of  Ventura.  In  the  neat  garden  of 
the  priest's  house,  which  adjoins  the  Mission,  are  a 
few  ancient  fruit  trees,  among  them  a  solemn  old  fig 
which  may  well  have  witnessed  the  prosperity  of 
ante-secularization  days. 

I  took  it  as  another  token  of  the  pleasant  quality 
of  the  Venturans  that  the  unpretending  nasturtium 
seemed  to  be  the  popular  flower.  Banks  and  hedges 
of  them  greeted  the  eye  everywhere,  and  banners  of 
the  gay  blossoms  hung  over  the  low  sea-clifT  from 
the  gardens  that  ran  to  its  edge.  I  think  that  Flora 
was  in  one  of  her  happiest  moods  when  she  invented 
this  sprightly  flower;  and  wherever  I  see  nastur- 
tiums in  the  garden  I  argue  smiles  and  sweet  sym- 
plicity  in  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Fording  the  Ventura  River  —  Tramps  in  clover  —  Hospitality  un- 
failing —  Carpinteria  —  Origins  of  Spanish  place-names  —  A 
huge  grapevine  —  Summerland:  oil-wells  in  tide-water — Monte- 
cito  and  millionaires  —  Santa  Barbara:  as  Dana  saw  it,  and 
to-day  —  The  Mission  —  A  link  with  the  past  —  The  de  la 
Guerra  mansion  —  Santa  Barbara  of  the  far  future. 


From  Ventura  the  coast  takes  a  northwesterly 
sweep,  the  mountains  now  pressing  closely 
down  to  the  shore.  There  are  two  roads  from  here 
to  Santa  Barbara;  the  inland  one,  preferred  by  au- 
tomobilists,  which  crosses  the  mountains  by  the 
Casitas  Pass,  and  another,  more  to  my  mind,  which 
follows  the  coast,  in  company  with  the  railway. 

The  bridge  over  the  Ventura  River  had  been  de- 
molished by  the  floods  of  the  previous  winter,  and 
the  ford  was  rather  too  wide  and  deep  for  Chino's 
peace  of  mind.  When  in  mid-stream  he  became  ner- 
vous, finding  the  water  touching  his  belly,  and  pro- 
posed to  turn  back;  but  I  had  seen  another  horse- 
man cross  the  day  before,  and  knew  we  could  get 
through;  so,  punching  him  industriously  with  my 
heel,  I  got  him  over,  though  not  without  getting 
both  saddle-bags  and  boots  water-logged. 

All  day  we  travelled  an  attractive  coast,  while  I 
let  the  monotone  of  the  surf  lull  me  into  a  mood  of 
reverie.    Houses    were    few,    and    hour   after    hour 


80  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

passed  without  sight  of  other  travellers.  Occasion- 
ally a  train  whirled  by,  breaking  the  indolent  sum- 
mer quiet  with  clatter  of  wheel  and  rhythmic  clangor 
of  bell.  By  now  we  had  been  passed  several  times, 
since  starting,  by  regular  trains,  and  the  trainmen 
began  to  toot  whistles  and  wave  friendly  hands  to  us 
as  they  flashed  past. 

Numerous  canons  led  back  into  a  maze  of  rough 
though  not  high  mountains,  which  culminated  some 
miles  to  the  north  in  the  long  ridge  of  the  Santa 
Ynez  Range ;  and  at  longer  intervals  capes  ran  sea- 
ward, shutting  off  the  view  of  the  farther  coast, 
and  providing  constant  material  for  curiosity  and 
imagination.  Now  and  then  a  distant  vessel  drew 
my  gaze,  and  raised  a  lazy  speculation  whether  its 
freight  were  lumber,  oil,  or  humanity,  and  whether  it 
was  bound  to  a  near-by  port  or  on  some  romantic 
voyage  to,  say,  Valparaiso  or  Zanzibar.  The  Chan- 
nel Islands,  looming  faintly  in  southern  haze,  were 
no  less  interesting  for  the  opposite  reason,  namely, 
on  the  score  of  their  being  almost  uninhabited. 

Just  beyond  the  promontory  of  Punta  Gorda  was 
a  tiny  village,  lying  a  little  off  the  road.  A  trio  of 
tramps  were  sitting  about  a  fire,  over  which  steamed 
a  sooty  coffee-pot.  A  lordly  steak  reposed  on  a  news- 
paper awaiting  its  turn,  together  with  onions  and 
half  a  loaf  of  bread.  I  wondered  whether  the  villagers 
could  have  paid  such  a  heavy  assessment  willingly. 

Mid-afternoon  found  us  at  Rincon  Point.  A 
homelike  farm,  shady  with  palms  and  olives,  occu- 


HOSPITALITY    UNFAILING  81 

pies  the  level  land  of  the  point,  and  Rincon  Creek 
marks  the  boundary  of  Ventura  and  Santa  Barbara 
Counties.  It  seemed  an  auspicious  spot  for  a  camp, 
so  I  boldly  entered  an  open  gate  of  the  farm  fence, 
and  found  an  inviting  nook  among  the  trees  beside 
the  stream.  There  were  one  or  two  trouty-looking 
pools  near  by,  and  I  spent  a  profitable  hour  with  my 
fly-rod.  As  I  sat  by  my  evening  fire,  tracing  Chino's 
wanderings  on  the  hillside  above  by  the  jingle  of  his 
bell,  I  received  a  visit  from  the  owner  of  the  farm. 
My  apologies  for  trespassing  were  at  once  dis- 
counted by  his  friendly  manner  as  he  dismounted 
for  a  chat,  remarking  that  I  ought  to  have  come  and 
put  up  at  the  house.  I  may  say  here  that  in  the  whole 
course  of  the  trip  I  found  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness always  flowing,  plentiful  and  rich,  whenever  I 
had  occasion  to  draw  upon  it. 

The  road  here  leaves  the  shore,  and  for  a  few 
miles  lies  through  a  fine  farming  country  stretching 
back  to  where  the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains  rise 
abruptly  to  nearly  four  thousand  feet.  It  would  be 
hard  to  imagine  a  more  desirable  location  for  a  farm- 
ing life  than  this  belt  of  richest  soil,  backed  by  opa- 
line mountains  and  fronted  by  the  calmest  of  seas. 
Here  and  there  a  clump  of  feathery  eucalyptus  or  a 
rank  of  sombre  cypresses  marked  the  place  of  a 
farm,  and  supplied  the  one  element  that  Nature  had 
omitted  from  an  otherwise  perfect  landscape. 

To  this  succeeded  the  lemon  and  orange  groves  of 
Carpinteria,  an  old  and   small  but    pretty  settle- 


82  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

ment;  or  rather,  two  settlements,  the  old,  Spanish 
and  decrepit,  and  the  new,  American  and  thriving. 
If  report  speaks  the  truth,  the  prosperity  of  one  local 
landowner  was  gained  by  methods  which  entitle  him 
to  the  special  contempt,  not  only  of  his  defrauded 
Mexican  neighbors,  but  of  all  persons  whose  sym- 
pathies go  with  one  Naboth  in  a  well-known  inci- 
dent of  Israelitish  history. 

The  name  of  this  village  offers  an  example  of  the 
manner  in  which  a  great  number  of  places  in  the  State 
came  by  their  titles.  This  and  many  other  points 
on  the  coast  were  named  by  members  of  the  expedi- 
tion (of  which  Father  Palou  was  the  historian) 
which  passed  up  the  coast  by  land  from  San  Diego 
to  Monterey  in  the  year  1769.  At  this  spot  some 
Indians  were  found  engaged  in  building  a  canoe,  and 
from  that  circumstance  the  soldiers  of  the  party 
named  the  place  by  the  Spanish  word  for  a  carpen- 
ter's shop.  Similarly,  from  nothing  more  important 
than  the  killing  of  a  gull,  a  point  a  few  miles  to  the 
west  was  named  Gaviota.  That  the  clergy  also 
took  their  full  share  in  the  work  of  bestowing  titles 
is  plain  enough  from  the  generous  manner  in  which 
the  saints  were  remembered. 

I  had  heard  of  a  celebrated  grapevine  hereabouts 
which  proclaims  itself  the  Goliath  of  its  kind.  I 
turned  aside  to  see  it,  and  found  the  monster  in  an 
enclosure  behind  a  little  house  which  stands  on  the 
site  of  a  vanished  adobe.  When  I  viewed  the  enor- 
mous trunk,  nearly  ten  feet  in  girth,  I  could  easily 


A    HUGE   GRAPEVINE  83 

credit  its  claim  as  to  size,  and  the  statement  of  its 
owner  that  it  bore  from  six  to  twelve  tons  of  fruit 
yearly.  The  limbs  (one  of  which  I  measured  and 
found  it  three  and  a  half  feet  around)  cover  a  space 
a  hundred  feet  square,  and  are  supported  on  a  frame- 
work of  massive  timbers.  There  is  a  legend  that  it 
dates  from  the  year  1809,  the  birth  year  of  so  many 
great  men;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  it  shows  no  sign 
of  decay,  and  should  be  good  for  many  a  decade, 
in  proof  of  one  "tall  California  story,"  at  least.  I 
bought  a  bottle  of  juice  made  from  its  grapes,  and 
ate  my  lunch  under  the  ample  shade,  looking,  I  was 
aware,  like  a  sort  of  modern  and  commonplace 
Silenus. 

From  the  increasing  number  of  automobiles  that 
bequeathed  us  their  superfluous  dust  and  odors,  I 
knew  that  we  were  nearing  Santa  Barbara.  We 
were,  in  fact,  already  within  the  limits  of  the  gener- 
ous grant  of  lands  which  belonged  of  old  to  the  Span- 
ish pueblo.  A  few  miles  brought  us  to  Summerland, 
where  a  number  of  black  and  oily  derricks  built  on 
wharves  are  robbing  Neptune  of  a  long  unsuspected 
asset.  The  place,  which  was  originally  a  Spiritualist 
colony,  now  resounds  with  the  creak  and  groan 
of  pumping-plants,  and  at  night  might,  I  should 
think,  still  be  a  congenial  rendezvous  for  ghosts. 

On  the  right  now  appeared  the  wooded  slopes  of 
Montccito,  a  lovely  expanse  of  rolling  country 
sacred  to  millionaires.  A  green  canon  of  oaks  and 
sycamores  suggested  thoughts  of  camping,  but  there 


84  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

was  something  almost  sacrilegious  in  the  idea,  and 
I  hastened  on.  Oak-shaded  villas  gave  place  to 
acres  of  sweet-peas  and  trim  orchards  of  walnut  and 
orange,  and  beyond  ran  the  dreamy  blue  mountains 
with  the  peak  of  La  Cumbre  overlooking  all.  Soon 
the  dust  of  the  road  was  exchanged  for  asphalt,  and 
gay  parties  of  Barbarefios  appeared  in  automobiles 
and  on  horseback  in  quest  of  appetites  for  dinner. 
By  early  evening  I  rode  into  Santa  Barbara,  and 
for  a  day  or  two  we  went  into  city  quarters. 

When,  in  1835,  Dana  sailed  into  Santa  Barbara 
Bay  on  the  Pilgrim,  he  found  (to  quote  his  own  words) 
"the  large  bay  without  a  vessel  in  it;  the  surf  roar- 
ing and  rolling  in  upon  the  beach ;  the  white  Mission, 
the  dark  town,  and  the  high,  treeless  mountains." 
The  three  quarters  of  a  century  that  has  elapsed 
since  that  time  has  been  highly  eventful  to  Cali- 
fornia as  a  whole,  but  as  usual  the  caprices  of  for- 
tune have  had  their  effect.  Santa  Barbara  then,  not- 
withstanding the  poor  impression  Dana  received  of 
it,  was  the  place  of  second  importance  in  the  Califor- 
nias,  outranked  only  by  Monterey,  the  capital. 
San  Francisco  was  "a  newly  begun  settlement, 
mostly  of  Yankee  Californians,  called  Yerba  Buena, 
which  promises  well";  and  Los  Angeles,  though 
then  the  largest  town  in  California,  could  hardly  have 
dreamed,  with  her  interior  position,  of  contesting  for 
the  southern  supremacy  with  the  better  placed 
settlements  on  the  coast. 

The  modern  city  of  Santa  Barbara  is  a  place  of  about 


SANTA    BARBARA  85 

twelve  thousand  people,  which,  wisely  following  the 
lines  of  least  resistance,  has  attained  a  fame  of  its 
own  as  a  particularly  delightful  place  of  residence. 
Its  climate,  mild,  equable,  and  the  reverse  of  stimu- 
lating, is  just  suited  to  the  enjoyment  of  its  attrac- 
tions of  coast  and  mountain  scenery;  and  tourists, 
who  nowadays  "with  extensive  View,  survey  Man- 
kind from  China  to  Peru,"  naturally  have  not  over- 
looked Santa  Barbara.  Two  giant  hotels  provide 
the  superlative  of  comfort  for  the  wealthy  traveller, 
and  streets  of  pretty  houses  in  flower-crammed  gar- 
dens are  inhabited  by  fugitives  from  blizzard- 
stricken  States  in  East  and  North. 

There  are  not  many  traces,  except  in  the  names  of 
several  of  the  streets,  of  the  older  Santa  Barbara. 
Of  what  remains  of  it  the  Mission  stands  first  in 
interest.  It  dates  from  1786,  and,  standing  on  the 
high  ground  at  the  rear  of  the  city,  the  gray  old 
building,  drowsing  in  the  sun,  with  its  red-tiled  cor- 
ridors and  twin  domed  belfries,  sheds  an  air  of  Span- 
ish languor,  of  perpetual  siesta,  over  the  city. 

While  I  sat  on  a  bench  beside  the  fountain  in  the 
open  space  before  the  Mission,  I  heard  the  patter 
of  naked  feet  beside  me,  and,  turning,  saw  the  arch 
face  of  a  Mexican  boy  of  seven  or  eight  years  only  a 
few  paces  away.  He  had  noticed  my  camera,  and 
was  skirmishing  in  hope  of  some  interesting  photo- 
graphic incident,  but  was  ready  for  flight  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice.  When  I  spoke  to  him  he  came  and 
talked  frankly,  telling  me  his  name,  Jose,  and  those 


86  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

of  his  father  and  a  considerable  array  of  brothers  and 
sisters.  The  surname  was  that  of  one  of  the  soldiers 
who  formed  the  escort  of  Padre  Lasuen  at  the  time 
of  the  founding  of  the  Mission,  and  as  it  was  an  un- 
usual name  I  had  little  doubt  that  this  curly-pated 
youngster  was  one  link  of  a  chain  which,  if  I  could 
trace  it,  would  lead  back  to  that  event,  —  one  of 
some  importance  in  the  history  of  the  State. 

The  Mission  possesses  a  great  collection  of  the 
material  of  California  history.  In  the  library  of  the 
building  I  found  the  genial  and  scholarly  Father 
Zephyrin  Engelhardt,  deep  in  learned  labors  over 
his  great  "History  of  the  Franciscan  Missions,"  now 
issuing  from  the  press.  It  is  a  worthy  task,  and 
Protestants  as  well  as  Catholics  may  well  regard 
with  respect  the  work  of  Father  Serra  and  his  help- 
ers on  these  shores,  which,  a  century  and  a  quarter 
ago,  were  more  remote  and  savage  than  Central 
Africa  is  to-day. 

On  a  quiet  side  street  I  found  another  remnant 
of  Santa  Barbara's  historic  past,  —  the  old  mansion 
of  the  de  la  Guerras,  a  family  so  identified  with  the 
city  that  its  history  might  almost  be  said  to  be  their 
own.  Readers  may  remember  that  it  is  the  marriage 
of  one  of  the  daughters  of  this  house,  Dona  Anita  de 
la  Guerra  de  Noriega  y  Carrillo,  that  Dana  de- 
scribes with  so  much  vivacity.  The  bridegroom  was 
Mr.  Alfred  Robinson,  the  agent  of  the  owners  of 
the  Pilgrim  and  the  Alert.  (There  is  a  volume,  now 
rare,  entitled  "Life  in  California,  by  an  American," 


THE    DE    LA   GUERRA    MANSION      87 

written  by  this  Mr.  Robinson,  which  gives  much 
very  interesting  information  as  to  manners  and  af- 
fairs in  California  a  decade  or  two  before  the  grand 
transition  from  hides  and  tallow  to  gold.) 

I  noticed  over  the  main  doorway  of  the  house  the 
words,  in  quaint  lettering,  "La  paz  sea  en  esta  casa" 
(Peace  be  to  this  house),  followed  by  the  name  of 
the  family.  There  seemed  an  odd  disparity  between 
the  sentiment  and  the  martial  name  (forde  laGuerra 
signifies,  literally,  "of  the  war").  I  wondered 
whether  the  incongruity  could  have  been  unnoticed 
by  the  old  don  who  had  the  words  cut  there,  or 
whether  there  may  not  have  been  some  particular 
occasion  for  the  little  joke. 

I  believe  it  has  been  found  that  the  western  coast 
of  this  continent  is  slowly  rising.  If  that  be  so,  and 
the  movement  is  to  go  on,  and  no  wholly  unthink- 
able change  is  to  arise  in  the  course  of  human  affairs, 
why,  I  wondered,  may  not  this  sleepy  city  be  a  far 
future  metropolis  of  the  Western  Hemisphere,  ly- 
ing at  the  head  of  a  huge  bay  protected  by  a  great 
arm  of  land  on  which  the  present  Channel  Islands 
would  be  prominent  peaks?  But  no  doubt,  long  be- 
fore that  could  come  to  pass,  ports,  steamships,  and 
all  the  rest  of  our  modern  paraphernalia  will  be  mat- 
ter of  very  ancient  history:  and  meanwhile  Santa 
Barbara  fulfils  her  comfortable  destiny,  dozing 
among  palms  and  roses  beside  the  bluest  of  seas. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Arboreal  strangers  —  A  squally  evening  —  Roadside  camp  and  com- 
pany —  An  incongruity:  church  as  barn  —  The  village  of  Naples 
—  The  Refugio  Pass —  More  pleasant  Mexicans :  Bernardito  the 
Jolly  —  Crossing  the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains  —  A  wonderful 
landscape  —  Wild  flowers,  and  the  madrono  —  Las  Lomas  de  la 
Purificacion  —  A  land  of  great  oaks  —  Fording  the  Santa  Ynez 
River. 


WE  left  Santa  Barbara  on  a  Monday  afternoon, 
both  man  and  horse  well  rested.  From  here 
the  coast  runs  almost  due  westerly  for  fifty  miles  to 
Point  Conception,  the  elbow,  or,  as  Dana  calls  it, 
"the  Cape  Horn  of  California,  where  it  begins  to 
blow  the  first  of  January,  and  blows  all  the  year 
round."  Here  again  I  found  it  advisable  to  take 
the  county  road,  a  short  distance  inland,  for  a  few 
miles,  to  escape  some  extensive  sloughs  that  occur 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Goleta  Point,  and  in  winter 
furnish  the  sportsmen  of  Santa  Barbara  with  goodly 
bags  of  ducks. 

A  few  miles  out,  at  the  village  of  La  Patera,  I  was 
overtaken  by  a  young  fellow  on  horseback  who  was 
leading  three  other  horses.  One  of  them  was  a  hand- 
some three-year-old,  full  of  fire  and  nerves,  who 
danced  about  in  excitement  at  every  automobile 
that  passed,  and  seemed  likely  to  drag  the  rider 
out  of  his  saddle.    I  offered  to  take  the  halter-ropes 


ARBOREAL   STRANGERS  89 

of  the  other  two  animals,  so  we  rode  on  together  and 
fell  into  conversation. 

Miles  of  eucalyptus  trees  have  been  planted  here- 
abouts, in  groves  and  along  the  roadsides,  and  I 
learned  from  my  companion  that  we  were  passing 
through  the  ranch  of  Mr.  Elwood  Cooper,  to  whom 
California  is  indebted  as  the  pioneer  both  of  this 
useful  tree  and  also  largely  of  the  olive.  One  of  the 
attractions  of  travel  in  this  State  is  that  so  many 
of  its  products  have  a  geographical  association  with 
some  distant  land  of  origin.  It  is  as  pleasant  —  per- 
haps more  so  —  to  encounter  constantly  some  ar- 
boreal Australian,  or  Greek,  or  Persian,  or  Algerine, 
as  it  would  be  to  meet  the  human  representatives  of 
those  countries.  When  you  see  a  pomegranate  you 
are  likely  to  think  of  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba;  and  the  "green-bursting  figs"  among  their 
broad  dark  leaves  remind  one  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
"merry  Grecian  coasters,"  or  the  "grave  Tyrian 
trader,"  who 

"unbent  sails 
There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of  foam, 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 

And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales." 

The  day  had  been  partly  cloudy,  with  a  gusty  wind 
and  the  possibility  of  a  sprinkle  of  rain.  As  we  rode 
down  a  long  avenue  of  eucalyptus,  a  squall  of  wind 
came  from  the  west,  rushing  like  something  solid 
down  the  tunnel-like  road,  and  filling  the  air  with 
dust,  twigs,  and  even  sizable  branches.    Following 


9o  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

it  came  a  lively  spatter  of  rain,  and  as  it  was  nearly- 
evening  the  question  of  a  camp  became  interesting. 
My  companion  was  bound  for  a  ranch  in  one  of  the 
canons  a  few  miles  ahead:  my  business  was  to  find 
the  best  shelter  I  could,  subject  to  Chino's  necessi- 
ties of  water  and  pasturage. 

A  mile  or  two  farther  on  we  came  to  Tecolote 
Canon,  where  a  good  stream  crossed  the  road,  and 
a  broken  fence  gave  access  to  a  triangle  of  grass  be- 
neath some  sycamores.  Here  I  handed  the  horses 
over  to  my  friend,  and  proceeded  to  such  acts  of 
trespass  as  were  necessary  to  my  comfort.  My 
poncho,  stretched  between  two  trees,  made  a  fair 
wind-break  for  myself,  and  Chino  was  quartered  in 
a  sheltered  spot  among  good  feed.  The  rain  ceased 
about  sundown,  and  I  ate  supper  quite  comfortably, 
amused  by  the  remarks  of  two  parties  of  automobil- 
ists  who  exclaimed  at  the  phenomenon  of  a  tramp 
reading  a  book  by  candlelight  while  he  ate  his  (of 
course)  stolen  victuals.  As  a  rule  the  sight  of  Chino 
as  a  part  of  my  belongings  gave  me  a  better  standing 
in  the  eyes  of  passers-by  when  my  camp  was  near  the 
road ;  but  this  time  he  was  not  in  view,  and  I  had  to 
bear  all  the  odium  that  justly  falls  to  the  man  who 
eats  and  sleeps  by  roadsides. 

A  camp-fire  here  was  not  practicable,  so  I  turned 
in  early  and  lay  smoking  and  listening  to  a  sympo- 
sium of  the  owls  which  have  given  the  canon  its 
name.  The  wind  had  ceased,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain 
had  fallen  again  as  I  was  spreading  my  blankets,  so 


ROADSIDE    CAMP   AND    COMPANY    91 

my  dispositions  were  made  with  a  view  to  a  possible 
wet  night.  However,  the  first  thing  that  came  to 
my  eyes  when  I  awoke  after  sleeping  some  hours 
was  the  friendly  twinkle  of  stars  between  the  leaves 
overhead. 

I  was  up  at  the  first  sign  of  dawn,  and  found  that 
during  the  night  another  traveller  had  arrived,  and 
was  now  sleeping  diligently  under  a  tree  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek.  He  —  I  supposed  it  was  a  he  — 
was  wrapped  in  an  old  red  quilt,  and  an  antique 
straw  hat  covered  his  face.  A  small  tin  pail  lay  near 
by,  and  his  pillow  was  the  sack  which  held  his  re- 
maining effects.  I  was  careful  not  to  awake  him  by 
my  manoeuvres  with  the  coffee-pot,  but  made  an 
extra  allowance  of  the  beverage;  and  seeing  that  he 
was  still  sleeping  when  I  was  ready  to  march,  I 
quietly  crept  over  and  left  a  pint  or  so  of  hot  coffee 
in  his  pail,  with  a  "whang"  (as  Stevenson  would 
say)  of  bread,  a  couple  of  apples,  and  part  of  a  can 
of  tobacco  alongside.  As  I  was  turning  away  it 
occurred  to  me  to  leave  my  card  beside  the  little 
legacy;  and  to  round  out  the  matter  I  pencilled  on 
the  back  Whitman's  lines  — 
"Camarado  .  .  . 
Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the  best  persons, 
It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  eat  and  sleep  with  the  earth." 

I  reckon  my  friend  had  some  puzzled  moments  over 
his  breakfast. 

It  was  a  delicious  morning.     The  road  passed 
among  rolling  hills  of  freshly  cut  grain,  broken  by 


92  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

frequent  canons  dark  with  oaks  and  dotted  with 
notable  sycamores.  In  one  deep  canon  a  giant  laurel, 
more  than  two  feet  in  diameter  of  stem,  filled  the 
whole  air  with  a  stimulating  scent  of  bay,  and  every- 
where a  multitude  of  aromatic  herbs  and  shrubs 
diffused  sweet  or  pungent  odors.  The  purple  sea 
lay  to  the  left  at  a  quarter-mile  distance,  and  on  the 
right  the  long  wall  of  the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains 
supplied  a  constant  entertainment  of  light  and 
color. 

As  we  approached  the  village  of  Naples  a  novelty 
appeared  in  the  landscape  in  the  shape  of  a  square 
church  tower,  of  Norman  style,  and  apparently 
built  of  stone.  Standing  on  a  hill-top  it  was  strikingly 
visible  long  before  the  village,  which  lies  in  a  hollow, 
came  in  view.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  would 
turn  out  to  be  of  cunningly  painted  wood,  or  else  of 
plaster;  but  on  a  near  approach  it  proved  to  be  of 
veritable  stone,  and  point-device  even  to  the  gar- 
goyles. It  had  an  incongruous  look,  standing  there 
in  a  sea  of  yellow  mustard.  I  was  told  that  it  had 
been  built  by  a  former  resident  of  the  locality,  and 
that  its  present  use  was  as  a  storage  place  for  hay! 

The  village  of  Naples  was  a  pleasant  surprise. 
From  its  ambitious  name  I  expected  to  see  some  spick- 
and-span  modern  resort.  I  found  instead  a  half- 
score  of  old  whitewashed  buildings,  the  cottages 
smothered  in  flowers,  and  the  hotel  so  engagingly 
simple  and  out-of-date  that  I  longed  to  put  up  there. 
A  brook  runs  down  to  the  sea  through  a  verdurous 


THE    REFUGIO    PASS  93 

canon  of  willows  and  sycamores,  and  the  road  up  the 
hill  beyond  was  bordered  with  giant  prickly-pears 
looped  with  pink  and  white  convolvulus.  The 
mowers  were  at  work  on  the  hillsides,  working  round 
and  round  the  knolls  like  barbers.  I  never  felt  any 
special  calling  to  a  farmer's  life;  yet  now  I  felt  that 
I  could  be  brought  to  accept  one  of  these  generous, 
slumberous,  oak-shaded  estates,  with  sea  and  moun- 
tains handy  for  purposes  of  recreation. 

We  travelled  all  the  morning  through  this  dreamy 
landscape.  Houses  were  few,  and  population  ap- 
peared to  be  almost  nil.  The  sea  seemed  unpopu- 
lated, too;  no  sail  or  streamer  of  smoke  broke  the 
infinite  creep  of  the  water,  and  the  surf,  half  a  mile 
away,  made  only  a  vague,  wide  murmur,  that  rilled 
the  air  like  a  thicker  kind  of  sunlight.  At  long  in- 
tervals I  saw  a  ranch-hand  or  two  at  work  in  the 
fields,  but  seldom  within  hailing  distance,  and  I 
passed,  like  "  the  lonely  seabird,  .  .  .  with  one  waft 
of  the  wing." 

A  few  miles  to  the  north,  beyond  the  ridge  of 
mountains  whose  foothills  now  rose  close  upon  the 
water's  edge,  was  the  Mission  of  Santa  Ines.  I 
wished  to  see  all  of  these  relics  of  California's  early 
days  that  lay  near  my  route,  so,  finding  here  a  road 
that  crossed  the  mountains  by  way  of  the  Refugio 
Pass,  I  struck  inland.  A  good  stream  ran  down  the 
canon,  and  as  evening  was  near  I  kept  a  watch  for 
a  camping-place.  Barbed-wire  fences  held  me  to  the 
road  for  a  mile  or  two,  but  at  last  I  came  to  a  path 


94  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

that  led  to  a  lonely  school-house.  Remembering  my 
rights  as  a  taxpayer  I  entered  the  gate  and  found,  a 
little  distance  upstream,  a  good  spot  under  syca- 
mores, with  abundant  fodder  adjacent.  I  earned  my 
supper  from  the  stream,  and  cooked  and  ate  it 
heartlessly  on  the  bank  in  plain  view  of  the  rela- 
tives of  the  eaten,  while  doves  cooed  melodiously 
and  coyotes  raised  doleful  hymns  to  the  rising 
moon. 

Next  morning  I  continued  up  the  canon,  which 
is  a  winding  and  very  beautiful  one,  shaded  with 
oaks  and  sycamores  of  the  finest.  After  a  few  miles 
the  road  leaves  the  bottom  and  begins  the  long 
climb  to  the  ridge.  Just  where  the  ascent  com- 
mences I  found  a  mountain  farm.  On  the  window 
of  the  house  was  painted  the  proprietor's  name  and 
the  word  Comidas,  signifying  "Meals."  The  place 
was  rustic  and  inviting,  and  I  tied  Chino  to  the  gate- 
post and  entered. 

A  pleasant  Mexican  woman  with  a  rollicking 
baby  answered  my  knock.  Certainly  she  could  cook 
me  a  meal,  but,  "Ay,  senor!  nothing  is  there  in  the 
house  but  eggs,  with  bread  and  coffee."  I  wanted 
nothing  better,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table  for 
proof.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  with  my  eggs, 
deliciously  cooked  in  oil  that  came,  I  learned,  from 
the  olive  trees  in  the  hillside  orchard.  Presently  the 
husband  came  in,  carrying  Bernardito  the  Jolly, 
and  they  all  sat  down  for  a  chat  while  I  ate. 

They  were  both  of  middle  age,  but  had  only  been 


BERNARDITO    THE    JOLLY  95 

married  a  year  or  two,  and  it  was  delightful  to  see 
his  pride  in  her  and  their  love  and  enthusiasm  for 
the  baby.  His  admirable  qualities  —  and  he  was 
all  admirable  —  were  pointed  out  carefully  to  me, 
and  I  was  charged  to  report  them  every  one  to  a 
compatriot  of  the  husband's  who  lived  in  the  next 
county:  —  how  strong  he  was,  and  how  big!  his  hair, 
so  long  for  only  ten  months!  his  three  small  teeth 
with  which  already  he  would  bite  his  father's  work- 
hardened  finger,  behold !  as  if  he  were  a  little  pig,  the 
chica!  And  so  on,  pouring  out  their  simple  love  in 
all  friendliness.  Altogether,  I  do  not  know  when  I 
have  more  enjoyed  a  meal  than  my  dish  of  eggs  at 
that  rough  plank  table  with  these  good  people. 

We  now  took  our  way  up  the  steep  slope.  The 
mountain-side  faced  the  south,  and  had  no  shade, 
and  the  sun  was  at  its  hottest.  Not  so  hot,  how- 
ever, as  the  desert  sun  of  our  previous  summer,  as  I 
reminded  Chino  when  we  halted  for  breath.  As  we 
climbed,  the  view  opened  finely  and  became  con- 
stantly more  striking.  Even  in  California  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  match  that  superb  panorama.  A  fore- 
ground of  flowery  brush  fell  away  steeply  into  a  pur- 
ple mystery  of  mountain  and  canon,  dreaming  in  the 
wistful  haze  of  summer:  at  five  miles'  distance  the 
infinite  plain  of  sea  shone  softly  under  the  southern 
sun;  far  out  the  islands  of  the  channel  showed  like 
fairy  isles,  mere  shadow  shapes  of  darker  tone 
against  the  pallid  blue  of  the  horizon.  Right  and 
left  ran  the  high,  wavering  crest  of  the  Santa  Ynez, 


96  CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

with  here  and  there  a  sentinel  pine  breaking  the  ease 
of  the  long  undulations. 

On  nearing  the  summit  oaks  began  to  appear, 
often  surrounded  with  lakelets  of  tender  grass,  in- 
teresting to  Chino.  Here  I  found  growing  freely  the 
lovely  globe-tulip  (Calochortus  albus),  a  white  saint 
of  a  flower,  all  ethereal  gentleness  and  tranquillity, 
the  purest  looking  blossom  I  know.  I  think  a  pirate 
would  look  at  it  with  reverence.  With  it  grew  many 
other  flowering  plants,  —  nemophilas,  geraniums, 
marguerites,  brodiseas,  anemones,  collinsias,  making 
little  floral  sanctuaries  among  the  rough  and  thorny 
world  of  the  brush.  About  the  pass  the  oaks  became 
larger,  and  among  them  grew  a  few  beautiful  ma- 
dronos. This  great  arbutus  is  one  of  the  most  strik- 
ing of  Western  trees,  handsome  in  leaf,  blossom,  and 
fruit,  and  especially  noticeable  for  its  smooth  stem 
of  satiny  buff  or  red.  The  long,  gleaming  arms  make 
a  gallant  appearance  amid  the  sombre  olive  of  oak 
and  pine,  and  with  its  tassels  of  scarlet  berries 
the  tree  looks  well  equal  to  the  part  of  "Captain 
of  the  Western  Wood,"  for  which  Bret  Harte  nomi- 
nated it. 

While  I  rested  by  a  spring,  eating  wild  strawber- 
ries and  noting  where  the  deer  had  lately  left  their 
imprints,  four  Mexican  children  came  by  on  their 
way  from  school,  as  they  told  me.  Their  temple  of 
learning  must  be  of  the  smallest,  for  I  had  seen  no 
house  except  one  deserted  adobe  since  I  left  my 
lunch  place,  three  hours  before. 


A    LAND    OF  GREAT    OAKS  97 

Crossing  the  divide,  we  turned  down  the  northern 
face  of  the  mountain  through  a  splendid  woodland 
of  oak,  laurel,  madrono,  and  maple.  A  roaring 
stream,  Ballard  Creek,  ran  in  a  deep  canon  below 
the  road.  We  marched  rapidly  down  the  steep  de- 
scent. The  sun  was  setting,  and  pools  of  solemn 
shadow  crept  in  among  the  golden  hills,  the  Lomas 
de  la  Purificacion,  that  opened  before  me.  How 
beautiful  are  these  Spanish  names!  They  seem  to 
throw  a  cloistral  quiet,  an  eremitical  calm,  over  the 
wide,  sunny  landscapes.  One  would  think  that  an- 
gels had  chosen  them. 

I  found  an  excellent  camping-place  on  a  little 
bench  of  land  above  the  stream.  The  moon  was  full, 
with  light  of  that  warm,  almost  orange,  color  that 
one  sometimes  sees  in  summer.  It  was  late  before  I 
could  bring  myself  to  turn  in,  and  then  I  lay  for  a 
long  time  enjoying  a  moon-bath,  and  watching  the 
swaying  pennons  of  Spanish  moss  that  hung  from 
the  great  oak  overhead.  Chino  was  tethered  in  a  foot- 
high  growth  of  clover,  and  put  me  to  sleep  at  last 
with  the  rhythm  of  his  molars. 

This  part  of  California  is  preeminently  the  land  of 
oaks.  My  road  next  day,  following  the  same  canon 
a  few  miles  farther,  passed  through  a  park-like  coun- 
try where  every  oak  seemed  to  reach  the  full  magni- 
ficence of  its  type.  The  foliage  swelled  out  in  exu- 
berance of  glossiest  green,  and  the  convex  of  every 
leaf  was  burnished  like  metal.  Between  the  trees 
the  ground  was  covered  with  heavy-headed  grasses, 


98  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

and   the  cattle  stood  gazing  helplessly  out  over 
leagues  of  waving  pasturage. 

The  canon  at  length  opened  into  the  valley  of  the 
Santa  Ynez  River,  which  here,  thirty  miles  from  its 
mouth,  and  after  two  months  of  the  rainless  summer, 
was  a  small  stream,  twenty  yards  or  so  in  width, 
winding  from  side  to  side  of  a  sandy  waste  which  in 
time  of  heavy  rain  fills  to  a  torrent.  I  spent  an  hour 
in  searching  for  the  road  which  my  map  showed  as 
following  the  south  bank.  It  had  been  washed  away 
in  the  spring  floods,  and  we  made  six  fords  before 
finding  a  place  where  we  could  climb  the  opposite 
bank.  Good  luck  led  me  to  the  very  spot  I  wanted. 
We  scrambled  up  a  thirty-foot  cliff  of  crumbling  soil, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  I  dismounted  at  the  door  of  the 
Mission. 


CHAPTER   IX 


Mission  Santa  Ines  —  Mission  hospitality  —  Quaint  relics  —  An 
operatic  departure  —  The  Gaviota  Pass  —  Magnificent  oaks  and 
sycamores  —  The  Nojogui  waterfall  —  Sea-fogs  —  A  travelling 
emporium  —  Las  Cruces  —  An  adventure  with  quicksand  — 
Voices  of  the  sea  —  Evicted  by  the  tide  —  Sea-birds,  and  a 
rattlesnake  —  A  sunset  island. 


AT  Mission  Santa  Ines  (to  give  the  name  its 
proper  form)  I  proved  for  myself  one  virtue  for 
which  the  Catholic  Church  has  always  been  famed, 
—  its  hospitality  to  travellers.  The  Mission  is  under 
the  charge  of  Father  Alexander  Buckler,  a  whole- 
souled  Teuton  from  the  Lower  Rhine.  His  exten- 
sive parish  keeps  him  much  on  the  move,  but,  luck- 
ily for  the  Mission,  the  Father  is  a  man  of  taste,  and 
has  chosen  for  headquarters  this  lonely  old  church, 
where  he  has  fitted  up  a  suite  of  the  dusky,  cell-like 
rooms  for  his  dwelling.  I  found  him  among  the 
roses  of  the  tiled  corridor,  explained  my  presence, 
and  asked  permission  to  camp  for  the  night  in  the 
meadow  near  by.  "Camp!"  he  echoed;  "why,  can't 
you  sleep  in  a  bed?"  And  straightway  led  me  off  to 
a  plainly  but  comfortably  fitted  room,  and  detailed 
Chino  to  the  stable  and  a  well-filled  manger.  Then 
he  was  sure  I  must  be  hungry,  so,  his  housekeeper 
being  away,  he  ransacked  the  larder  to  find  me  a 
meal.  Whether  I  were  Catholic,  Protestant,  or  Mo- 


ioo        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

hammedan,  Quaker,  Shaker,  or  Supra-lapsarian, 
was  all  one  to  him :  I  was  a  traveller,  and  a  guest  of 
St.  Agnes  I  must  be. 

I  learned  that  the  room  assigned  to  me  had  once 
been  the  quarters  of  the  comandante,  when,  after 
the  secularization  of  the  Mission,  one  half  of  the 
then  remaining  building  had  been  taken  by  the  civil 
authorities  and  put  to  the  use  of  jail,  blacksmith- 
shop,  or  whatever  other  purpose  it  would  serve.  I 
heard  also  that  in  my  bed  an  Indian  who  was  mur- 
dered a  few  years  ago  near  by  had  breathed  his  last. 
But  no  ghost  disturbed  my  sleep,  and  I  awoke  next 
morning  to  the  strains  of  the  "Romance  in  F," 
played  by  the  good  Father  out  of  compliment,  be- 
cause I  had  happened  to  mention  a  special  liking  for 
Schumann.  (The  Father  is  an  enthusiast  in  music. 
He  played  the  organ  when  four  years  of  age,  and 
performed  in  public  at  twelve ;  and  often  his  piano  is 
heard  by  the  owls  of  Santa  Ines  at  the  most  abnor- 
mal hours.) 

I  was  able  to  be  of  some  service  to  the  Father  in 
photographic  matters,  and  spent  three  days  in  his 
cheerful  society.  Lying,  as  this  Mission  does,  away 
from  the  main  lines  of  travel,  it  has  suffered  less  than 
many  of  its  sisters  from  the  vandals,  and  is  a  verit- 
able museum  of  objects  historical,  ecclesiastical, 
and  quaint.  Here  are  rusty  little  cannon,  with  obso- 
lete muskets,  pistols,  and  swords ;  branding-irons  that 
once  marked  St.  Agnes's  flocks  and  herds;  candle- 
sticks in  formidable  array;  portentous  locks  and 


QUAINT    RELICS  101 

complicated  keys ;  parchment  scores  of  church  music, 
with  the  old  square  notes;  antique  tomes  of  baptisms, 
marriages,  and  burials,  adorned  with  wonderful  ru- 
brics and  bound  in  rawhide;  and  a  host  of  vessels  of 
ritual  and  clerical  what-not. 

I  was  amused  at  a  vast  umbrella  of  yellow  silk, 
with  which  the  padres  of  bygone  days  shielded  their 
reverend  pates  from  the  sun  on  their  long  marches 
afoot  (for  the  strict  Franciscan  rule  debarred  the  use 
of  horse  or  ass).  Still  more  droll  was  a  little  Ma- 
donna of  wood,  a  foot  or  so  high,  with  a  painfully 
commonplace  expression  of  face,  but  a  quizzical 
look  in  the  eye  that  was  highly  comic.  She  was 
dressed  in  stiff  figured  damask,  with  a  kind  of  hila- 
rious little  cloak  that  stood  out  all  about  her,  and 
a  battered  straw  hat  one  or  two  sizes  too  large.  The 
good  Father  was  not  a  whit  offended  at  my  mirth 
over  the  absurd  little  figure,  and  explained  that  it 
was  the  special  pride  of  his  Indian  flock.  When  he 
removed  it  once  from  its  place  in  the  church,  where 
it  had  stood  for  many  years,  they  objected  stren- 
uously, and  would  not  rest  until  it  was  brought 
back.  After  all,  perhaps  one  might  better  envy  than 
laugh  at  such  admirable  simplicity. 

Of  the  building  itself  there  remains,  as  in  the  case 
of  most  of  the  Missions,  only  enough  to  suggest  the 
extent  and  beauty  of  the  original  structure.  Santa 
lues  suffered  an  additional  disaster  when,  in  the 
heavy  rains  of  the  spring  of  191 1,  the  bell-tower  and 
several  of  the  buttresses  of  the  church  wall  suddenly 


102        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

crumbled  away  and  fell  in  a  chaos  of  adobes  and  til- 
ing into  the  little  cemetery.  The  bells  themselves, 
all  of  dates  early  in  the  last  century,  fortunately 
were  unharmed,  even  to  their  huge  ornamental  caps 
of  sycamore.  Through  the  energy  of  Father  Buckler 
the  damage  has  already  been  repaired,  and  in  en- 
during concrete.  At  Easter  of  this  year  a  special 
service,  ushered  in  with  a  great  ringing  of  the  bells, 
was  held  to  celebrate  the  event. 

My  departure  from  Santa  Ines  was  in  the  operatic 
manner,  for  I  rode  away  to  the  imposing  strains  of 
the  "Pilgrims'  Chorus,"  which  the  Father  thought 
an  appropriate  valedictory.  It  was  a  superb  morn- 
ing, with  the  highlands  of  the  San  Rafael  Range  to 
the  north  glowing  like  a  wall  of  opal  under  a  sky  of 
ethereal  blue.  I  now  turned  again  toward  the  coast, 
taking  a  road  which  crosses  the  mountains  by  the 
Gaviota  Pass,  a  few  miles  to  the  west  of  the  one  by 
which  I  had  come. 

I  was  more  than  ever  delighted  by  the  beauty  of 
this  region,  which  for  mile  on  mile  is  a  literal  park 
of  undulating  hill-land  decorated  with  kingly  oaks, 
many  of  which  must  be  full  twenty  feet  in  girth  of 
stem.  Along  the  watercourses  grew  sycamores  com- 
mensurate in  size,  which  gave  the  name  of  Alisal 
to  this  grant.  A  mild  wind  blew  from  the  north, 
and  before  it  the  waves  of  shining  grass  flowed  past 
in  rich  volume.  Doves  called  and  jays  chuckled 
from  every  tree,  and  quail  ran  nimbly  before  us 
down  the  road.    Chino,  well  rested  and  fortified 


THE    NOJOGUI    WATERFALL         103 

with  hay  and  grain,  was  in  good  fettle,  and  marched 
along  gaily,  noting  the  green  landscape  with  an 
approving  eye. 

I  had  been  told  of  a  pretty  waterfall  on  the  No- 
jogui,  a  tributary  of  the  Santa  Ynez,  and  turned 
aside  to  see  it.  It  is  in  a  deep  wooded  canon,  half  a 
mile  to  the  south  of  the  road :  a  straight,  perpendic- 
ular, slender  drop  of  about  one  hundred  feet,  such 
as  in  England  would  be  called  a  "ghyll,"  or  "force." 
With  its  bordering  of  dripping  maidenhair  fern  it 
makes  a  charming  sight.  "Nojogui,"  I  have  been 
told,  is  Indian  for  honeymoon,  and  there  is  a  legend 
of  an  Indian  brave  who,  honeymooning  here  with 
his  bride,  was  carried  over  the  fall  and  killed.  I 
never  find  that  these  stories  that  go  with  water- 
falls like  premiums  with  magazines  add  much  to 
the  beauty  of  the  scene;  and,  moreover,  this  par- 
ticular stream  is  such  a  slight  affair  that  one  cannot 
help  thinking  the  brave  must  have  been  something 
of  a  duffer.  However,  as  waterfall  pure  and  simple 
the  sight  is  pretty  enough. 

We  had  travelled  so  easily  that  it  was  close  upon 
sunset  when  we  reached  the  pass.  Just  beyond  the 
summit  I  made  camp  under  some  oaks  in  a  hollow 
where  a  small  stream  ran.  The  forage  was  unusu- 
ally good,  a  thick  mat  of  burr-clover  almost  a  foot 
high.  Chino  affectionately  rubbed  his  nose  about  in 
it  in  sheer  joy,  and  ripped  away  with  sighs  of  pleas- 
ure. I  was  not  so  well  provided.  The  stream  was 
so  strong  of  alkali  that  the  tea  curdled  in  the  boiling 


io4  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

water;  the  best  place  I  could  find  for  sleeping  slanted 
unpleasantly;  and  the  south  wind  brought  in  such  a 
dense  fog  from  the  sea  that  by  morning  my  oilskin 
top-covering  was  like  a  hydrographic  model,  with 
watersheds,  creeks,  main  streams,  and  reservoirs 
all  in  detail.  However,  I  made  my  morning  coffee 
doubly  strong  to  offset  the  alkali  and  ward  off  what 
people  used  to  call  the  "humours." 

It  must  be  by  virtue  of  these  dense  and  frequent 
fogs  that  the  oaks  of  this  coast  region  grow  to  such 
rare  perfection.  By  this  means  they  not  only  re- 
ceive the  necessary  moisture  for  growth,  which  the 
roots  would  supply,  but  are  enabled  often  actually 
to  bathe  and  revel  in  it.  They  have  not  only  bread, 
but  wine;  are  comforted  as  well  as  fed;  and  their 
plump  and  cheerful  faces  reflect  their  enjoyment. 

Soon  after  we  took  the  road  I  saw  two  wagons 
toiling  toward  me  up  the  grade.  When  we  met,  the 
drivers  pulled  up  their  horses  for  a  chat.  They  had 
come  from  Ventura,  where  they  had  a  saddlery- 
shop,  and  were  "just  taking  in  the  country"  (a  pe- 
culiar idiom  that  always  amuses  me)  and  doing  a 
little  business  as  they  went,  to  pay  expenses.  With 
this  in  view,  they  offered  to  sell  me,  in  turn,  a  horse, 
oranges,  a  horsehair  riata,  a  revolver,  neckties,  a 
saddle,  a  brace  of  rabbits,  and,  finally,  some  as- 
tounding chromographs.  Then  they  inquired  my 
own  "line,"  and  at  once  suggested  that  I  should  do 
a  little  advertising  for  them  in  my  books.  For  this 
they  were  willing  to  pay  (I  suppose  in  rabbits  or 


LAS    CRUCES  105 

neckties).  They  were  puzzled,  but  not  offended, 
when  I  replied  that  that  would  be  impossible,  but 
supplied  me  with  some  printed  cards  which  I  was  to 
"kinder  drop  around  in  hotels  and  sich  places."  I 
made  a  half-hearted  promise,  bought  a  few  oranges, 
and  so  escaped. 

At  the  village  of  Las  Cruces,  where  I  arrived 
about  midday,  I  got  an  excellent  meal  at  the  cot- 
tage of  an  old  Spanish  woman  where  I  had  been  told 
I  might  purchase  bread.  Her  heart  was  enlarged 
over  me  when  she  heard  that  I  had  been  the  guest  of 
the  good  Father  at  Santa  Ines,  to  whom  she  is  pa- 
rishioner and  friend.  I  am  always  glad  when  I  can 
get  entertainment  with  these  friendly  Spanish  and 
Mexican  folk,  and  relish  it  far  beyond  the  preten- 
tious hotel  "hospitality"  of  towns. 

From  Las  Cruces  the  road  turned  directly  south, 
following  a  picturesque  gorge  whose  precipitous 
walls  carried  a  wonderful  growth  of  ferns,  flowering 
shrubs,  and  herbage,  mingled  with  huge  creamy  can- 
dle-flames of  yucca.  A  lively  stream  rushes  among 
rocks  and  boulders  that  break  it  into  pleasant  music. 
A  pipe-line,  carrying  oil  from  the  wells  some  miles 
inland  to  the  refinery  at  Alcatraz,  near  by  on  the 
coast,  does  its  best  to  spoil  the  canon  at  its  prettiest 
point,  though  I  suppose  it  seems  an  adornment  to 
the  gentlemen  who  own  stock  in  the  concern. 

A  turn  of  the  road  brought  me  rather  unex- 
pectedly within  sight  of  the  sea,  and  I  soon  came 
again  to  the  shore  at  Gaviota,  not  many  miles  west 


106        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

of  the  spot  where  I  had  left  it.  A  group  of  farm 
buildings  and  a  dingy  house  showing  the  sign  "Ga- 
viota  Hotel  and  Store"  stood  at  the  mouth  of  the 
canon,  but  I  saw  no  living  being  except  a  melan- 
choly hound  and,  in  the  distance,  a  mounted  man 
charging  about  as  he  rounded  up  a  band  of  horses. 

The  coast  road  from  this  point  west  for  ten  or  twelve 
miles  is  little  more  than  a  track,  and  that  of  the 
roughest  kind,  quite  impossible  for  wheeled  vehi- 
cles. There  was  a  fence  across  the  path,  and  a  no- 
tice was  posted  that  travellers  must  take  the  beach. 
I  rode  down  to  the  shore,  but  when  I  saw  that  a  little 
farther  on  the  tide  was  washing  up  to  the  base  of 
the  cliffs  I  turned  back,  found  a  way  through  the 
fence,  and  trespassed  on  my  way. 

The  country  hereabout  is  monotonous  and  unat- 
tractive. Low  undulating  hills  run  for  mile  on  mile, 
treeless,  and  scanty  even  of  brush,  and  the  canons  are 
dry  and  shadeless.  We  marched  some  miles  before 
finding  water,  and  I  resolved  to  camp  at  the  first 
creek  I  should  see.  At  last  I  came  to  one,  which 
afforded  good  pasturage  also;  and,  dismounting,  I 
led  Chino  down  toward  the  beach,  where  I  noticed 
a  little  bench  of  green  grass  at  the  mouth  of  the 
canon  and  on  the  very  edge  of  the  shore  sand. 

Here  the  expedition  narrowly  escaped  disaster. 
The  inwash  of  the  tide,  meeting  the  water  of  the 
creek,  had  formed  an  area,  a  sort  of  pit,  of  quick- 
sand. This  we  had  to  cross  in  order  to  reach  the 
beach,  and  in  a  moment,  without  warning,  I  was  up 


AN   ADVENTURE  WITH   QUICKSAND    107 

to  my  middle,  and  Chino,  following  close  behind, 
plunged  in  beside  and  almost  upon  me.  On  the  in- 
stant I  threw  myself  backward,  and  tried  to  work 
myself  out,  but  the  sand  clogged  me  as  if  it  were 
liquid  lead,  and  I  could  not  reach  back  with  my 
hands  to  where  the  solid  ground  would  give  me  sup- 
port. Chino,  meanwhile,  was  struggling  desperately 
but  helplessly,  the  heavy  saddle-bags  and  other 
articles  of  his  load  weighing  him  down  so  that  he 
was  already  half  covered. 

By  great  good  fortune  the  canon  wall  was  near  by, 
not  over  eight  feet  away.  It  was  of  weathered  rock, 
soft  and  shaly,  and  I  thought  that  if  I  could  any- 
how work  over  to  it  I  could  get  grip  enough  on  it  to 
support  myself.  It  seemed  an  impossible  thing  to  do, 
with  that  fatal  sand  clasping  and  weighing  me  down, 
but  I  attempted  it. 

I  remember  that,  as  I  struggled,  a  horror  of  the 
commonplace  sunlit  evening  flashed  over  me,  and, 
with  it,  the  thought  that  no  one  would  ever  know 
what  had  happened  to  me,  for  there  would  be  no 
trace,  no  clue.  That  horrible  sand  would  close 
over  me,  the  sun  would  shine  on  the  spot,  the  roar 
of  waves  would  go  on  unbroken;  I  should  simply 
cease  to  be.  I  think  I  wondered  whether  there  would 
not  be  any  way  of  telling  my  friends;  but  I  am  not 
sure  whether  that  thought  came  then,  or  in  thinking 
it  over  afterwards. 

All  this  can  only  have  taken  a  very  short  time, 
during  which  I  was  struggling  to  reach  the  rocky  wall. 


108        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

At  last  my  fingers  scraped  the  rock,  and  gradually 
I  was  able  to  draw  myself  backwards  to  firm  ground. 
Then  I  ran  round  by  the  solid  beach  sand,  crossing 
the  creek,  and  came  back  to  Chino.  He  had  stopped 
struggling,  but  lay  over  on  his  side,  and  had  sunk  so 
that  one  of  the  saddle-bags  was  quite  out  of  sight. 
Blood,  too,  was  spattered  all  about  him. 

Coming  as  close  as  was  safe  behind  him,  I  gradu- 
ally loosened  as  much  of  his  load  as  I  could  reach. 
Then  I  caught  his  rope  and  tried  to  get  him  to  exert 
himself.  For  some  time  he  made  no  move,  and  I 
thought  he  must  have  broken  his  off-side  foreleg  on 
a  half-buried  snag  of  dead  wood  that  projected  above 
the  sand.  Again  and  again  I  tried  to  get  him  to  move, 
but  he  still  lay  on  his  side,  drawing  great  gasping 
breaths,  and  I  about  decided  I  should  have  to  shoot 
him  where  he  lay.  But  I  made  a  last  effort,  shouting 
and  hauling  at  him  with  all  my  strength,  until  I 
literally  forced  him  to  bestir  himself:  when,  putting 
my  last  ounce  into  it,  I  pulled  and  shouted,  refusing 
to  allow  him  to  relax  his  efforts  for  a  moment,  and 
gradually  working  his  head  round  somewhat  toward 
where  I  stood.  With  a  final  wild  spasm  he  scrambled 
up  on  to  the  dry,  hard  sand,  and  stood  snorting  and 
trembling  pitifully,  bespattered  with  blood  and  ut- 
terly exhausted. 

I  was  vastly  relieved  to  find  that  the  blood  was 
coming  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils.  He  had  broken 
some  small  blood-vessel  in  his  first  struggles.  I  took 
off  the  saddle  and  led  him  carefully  over  to  a  grassy 


AN   ADVENTURE  WITH   QUICKSAND    109 

spot,  where  I  washed  out  his  mouth  and  then  gave 
him  a  thorough  rubbing-down;  and  within  half  an 
hour  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  my  staunch 
companion  of  so  many  days  and  nights  feeding  with 
equanimity  and  even  enthusiasm. 

The  incident  was  sufficiently  dangerous  to  give 
me  a  lesson  in  caution,  as  well  as  cause  for  hearty 
thankfulness.  There  was  not  the  slightest  hint  of 
treachery  in  the  appearance  of  the  sand,  but  there- 
after I  went  warily  in  all  doubtful  places.  I  ran- 
sacked my  rescued  saddle-bags  and  made  a  rare 
supper  to  celebrate  the  adventure.  As  the  bags  were 
strongly  made,  and  waterproofed,  the  contents  had 
not  been  much  damaged.  Then  I  ran  up  my  sleep- 
ing-tent, in  view  of  the  fog  which  I  could  see  advan- 
cing from  the  sea.  I  chose  a  place  on  a  little  shelf 
of  dry  sand,  sheltered  by  the  angle  of  the  canon 
wall,  and  apparently  above  high-water  mark  by  a 
safe  though  narrow  margin.  Then  in  the  dusk  I 
gathered  a  pile  of  driftwood  and  made  a  royal  fire, 
by  which  I  sat  until  long  after  dark,  listening  with 
more  than  usual  enjoyment  to  the  tinkle  of  Chino's 
bell  and  the  manifold  voices  of  the  sea. 

There  seemed  that  night  to  be  an  unusual  vari- 
ety in  the  sound  of  the  surf.  Intervals  of  dramatic 
silence  were  broken  suddenly  by  roars  as  if  huge 
bodies  of  water  were  being  dropped  from  some  great 
height.  Then  would  come  a  long,  sibilant  swish, 
which,  after  subsiding  to  rippling  murmurs,  ended 
startlingly  with  a  thump,  fortissimo.    Occasionally, 


no        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

in  the  midst  of  a  long  whisper  there  would  come 
a  smart  clap,  followed  by  little  quarrellings,  and 
shudderings,  and  sighs,  almost  of  human  quality  of 
tone.  The  ordinary  sounds  of  the  breakers,  the  steady 
pound,  boom,  and  clatter,  pound,  boom,  and  clatter, 
seemed  not  to  be  in  evidence. 

The  entertainment  was  so  interesting  that  it  drew 
me  down  to  the  water's  edge.  When  I  passed  be- 
yond the  light  of  the  fire,  I  found  a  new  fascination 
in  the  pale  sea-flame  that  hovered  and  raced  up  and 
down  my  quarter-mile  of  beach  as  the  rollers  broke 
in  ghostly  phosphorescence.  Then  a  steamer,  three 
or  four  miles  out,  passed  on  her  way  up  coast,  her 
lights  shining  genially  across  the  black  void  of  wa- 
ter. I  fancied  that  some  lover  and  lass,  leaning  to- 
gether over  the  bulwarks,  might  be  watching  my 
twinkling  beacon,  and  I  went  back  and  threw  on 
another  log  to  brighten  the  blaze,  in  the  hope  that 
the  beam  might  stimulate  my  swain  to  some  urg- 
ency, or  some  pretty  fancy,  that  should  bring  a 
happy  climax  to  his  wooing. 

When  at  last  I  felt  in  mood  to  turn  in,  I  noticed 
that  the  tide  had  made  a  long  advance  toward  my 
tent;  but  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  close  upon  its  turn 
and  that  I  could  hold  my  ground.  Still,  as  there 
seemed  just  a  possibility  of  trouble,  I  did  not  undress 
to  my  usual  camping  limit,  but  got  into  my  blan- 
kets partly  dressed,  and  soon  fell  asleep.  I  suppose 
I  had  slept  about  half  an  hour  when  I  awoke  with 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  the  water  was  coming  too 


EVICTED    BY    THE    TIDE  in 

near.  Looking  out,  I  saw  that  the  stronger  waves 
were  sending  their  fans  of  foam  quietly  up  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  me,  leaving  a  very  slight  rise  of  beach 
before  they  would  wash  against  and  undermine  my 
little  shelf  of  sand.  There  seemed  to  be  still  a  "sport- 
ing chance"  that  I  should  be  safe,  and  I  lay  down 
again;  but  the  thought  of  awaking  next  time  to 
find  myself  swamped  and  the  tent  collapsing  over 
me  was  so  annoying  that  I  could  not  sleep  and  re- 
solved to  move. 

To  go  farther  back  was  impossible,  for  the  stream 
ran  only  a  few  yards  behind  me,  so  I  gathered  an 
armful  of  my  traps  and  made  a  bolt  in  the  darkness 
across  the  creek,  which  was  already  flooding  with 
sea- water,  and  found  a  level  place  among  the  grass 
near  my  horse.  I  had  to  make  two  more  flights  to  and 
fro  to  bring  over  the  rest  of  my  belongings,  and  then, 
too  disgusted  to  set  up  the  tent  again,  I  made  a 
wind-break  of  the  saddle-bags,  rolled  myself  up  in 
the  blankets,  and  finally  got  to  sleep.  My  last  glance 
across  at  the  red  embers  of  the  fire  showed  an  am- 
bitious wave  in  the  act  of  washing  it  out  of  existence. 

In  spite  of  mishaps,  the  place  was  so  attractive, 
in  its  close  proximity  to  the  sea  and  its  complete  re- 
tirement, that  I  decided  to  remain  for  another  day. 
The  swallows  that  haunted  the  cliffs  made  the  pleas- 
antest  of  company,  flying  happily  about  me,  and 
pursuing  the  sand-flies  almost  into  the  coffee.  The 
weather,  too,  supplied  the  one  desirable  thing, 
namely,  shade,  which  the  camp  otherwise  lacked ;  for 


ii2        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  fog  of  the  night,  lifting  but  not  passing  off  all 
day,  afforded  a  delightful  temperature,  with  restful 
tones  of  color.  It  is  so  that  I  best  love  the  sea.  Its 
grandeur,  its  significance,  its  solemnity,  are  far  more 
felt  than  "'neath  the  all-revealing  sun";  and  the 
water  itself,  deeply,  darkly  clear,  seems  more  aque- 
ous and  elemental. 

There  was  an  unusual  number  of  sea-birds  here- 
abouts, and  in  a  walk  down  the  beach  I  came  upon 
the  rocky  point  which  was  their  home.  Hundreds  of 
them  sat  ranked  in  demure  hierarchy,  the  shags, 
who  were  the  most  numerous,  taking  the  lowest 
place,  then  the  white-backed  gulls,  and,  presiding 
over  all  with  an  air  of  burlesque  dignity,  a  dozen  or 
so  pelicans.  At  my  approach  the  whole  company 
took  flight,  and  in  a  moment  "the  winged  air  was 
darked  with  plumes."  The  clatter  of  wings  was  be- 
wildering as  they  circled  once  or  twice  and  then 
streamed  off  to  settle  on  the  belt  of  kelp  which  here 
forms  a  floating  reef  unbroken  for  mile  on  mile.  The 
flight  of  the  pelican  is  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  ease 
in  motion.  I  was  never  tired  of  watching  them  glid- 
ing in  file,  smooth,  swift,  and  silent,  with  no  move- 
ment of  wing  for  great  distances.  If  ever  men  attain 
to  such  perfection  of  aeronautics  (though  that  is 
impossible),  I  mean  to  sell  my  belongings,  to  my 
boots,  if  necessary,  and  purchase  the  magic  ma- 
chine. 

Returning  from  my  walk,  I  almost  stepped  upon 
a  rattlesnake  that  lay  coiled  among  the  driftwood 


A   SUNSET    ISLAND  113 

which  I  had  been  drawing  upon  for  my  fire.  He  was 
not  a  large  one,  and  the  calendar  in  his  tail  marked 
only  four  changes  of  skin;  but  I  judged  that  he 
must  die.  Mr.  Muir,  I  remember,  deprecates  killing 
these  creatures,  and  says  that,  having  once  put  one 
to  death,  he  felt  himself  "degraded  by  the  killing 
business,  farther  from  heaven."  On  the  other  hand, 
I  recalled  that  when,  on  the  island  called  Melita,  a 
viper  bit  the  shipwrecked  apostle  in  the  hand,  he  un- 
ceremoniously "shook  off  the  beast  into  the  fire." 
My  little  reptile  was  a  potential  evil-doer  also,  and 
on  the  whole  I  saw  no  reason  for  trying  to  better 
such  a  notable  example  as  that  of  St.  Paul. 

At  evening  the  cloud  curtain  to  the  south  lifted 
a  little  from  the  horizon,  and  one  of  the  islands  of  the 
Channel  Group  shone  out  like  a  great  jewel  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun.  It  was  very  beautiful,  and 
rather  solemn,  —  the  slow  lifting  of  the  veil ;  the 
magic  of  the  revelation ;  the  silent  passage  through 
tone  on  tone  of  ethereal  color  until,  when  the  sun 
had  sunk,  the  distant  isle  stood  marked  in  soft, 
dense  purple  on  a  glowing  belt  of  yellow,  the  only 
object  between  gray  of  cloud  and  gray  of  sea.  Then 
came  the  gradual  lowering  of  the  veil  again  over  all. 
There  was  something  unearthly  in  the  quiet  color- 
action,  as  if  an  angel  had  managed  the  heavenly 
display.    Indeed,  perhaps  one  had. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  bad  road  —  A  Marblehead  skipper:  bygone  whaling  —  Portuguese 
fishermen  —  Point  Conception:  night  at  the  lighthouse  —  A 
natural  division  point  —  The  Jalama:  fine  old  olives  —  Camp  on 
the  Espada:  tramp  company  again  —  A  Point  Conception  wind 
—  An  inexplicable  family  —  The  town  of  Lompoc:  Chinese  free- 
masons: Don  Camilo,  a  Spanish-Calif ornian  —  The  Mission  of  La 
Purisima  Concepci6n. 

This  stretch  of  coast  is  reputed  to  be  the  windi- 
est part  of  all  the  California  seaboard.  There 
chanced  to  be  only  moderate  breezes  at  this  time, 
however,  with  a  good  deal  of  fog;  and  the  morning 
on  which  we  left  the  canon  was  calm,  with  a  sleepy 
sea  that  gleamed  to  white  where  it  caught  the  rays 
of  a  hazy  sun.  The  road,  which  can  never  have  been 
exactly  a  boulevard,  had  been  almost  obliterated  by 
the  spring  rains,  and  scraps  of  broken  harness,  shed 
plentifully  along  the  way,  seemed  to  illustrate  the 
adventures  of  the  last  wagon  that  had  passed  over 
it.  It  was  a  relief  when,  after  a  few  miles,  we  fought 
our  way  through  a  jungle  of  ten-foot  mustard  down 
to  the  beach,  where  we  could  travel  on  the  hard 
sand.  There  seemed  a  little  risk  here  and  there  of 
being  cut  off  by  the  tide  before  we  could  round  the 
many  headlands,  and  at  every  crossing  of  a  creek  I 
could  see  that  the  adventure  of  the  quicksand  came 
vividly  to  Chino's  mind.  The  loneliness  of  the  region 


A    MARBLEHEAD    SKIPPER  115 

was  marked  by  the  presence  of  a  bald  eagle  that  sat 
in  haughty  solitude  on  the  cliff-edge,  and  gazed  on 
us  with  unquailing  eye  as  we  passed  below.  This 
great  bird  is  becoming  rare  in  California,  but  still 
breeds  in  the  lonely  islands  off  the  coast. 

At  El  Bulito  Canon  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
handsome  large  house  of  a  local  cattle-baron.  Gleam- 
ing white  among  noble  oaks,  it  had  much  the  air  of 
a  French  chateau  until  I  reflected  that  it  was  prob- 
ably built  of  one-inch  plank,  or  perhaps  cardboard. 
Canon  followed  canon,  breaking  the  rounded  hills 
of  yellowing  grass  that  rose  in  long  succession  to  the 
west.  Coming  to  the  Canada  del  Cojo  I  found  a 
little  cluster  of  buildings  where  a  trio  of  Portuguese 
fishermen  had  established  themselves.  A  great  boil- 
ing of  nets  was  going  forward  in  an  immense  caul- 
dron set  against  the  cliff,  and  in  a  shed  one  of  the 
men  was  employed  in  making  traps  for  crawfish  (des- 
tined, I  suspect,  to  appear  as  lobsters  on  the  dining- 
tables  of  San  Francisco  and  Los  Angeles). 

As  pasturage  was  scanty  hereabouts,  I  had  a  mind 
to  camp  if  I  could  buy  forage  for  my  horse.  The 
Portuguese  had  none,  for  they  kept  no  horse,  but 
I  learned  that  an  old  American  fisherman  lived  close 
by,  on  the  cliff,  and  that  there  I  might  find  what  I 
wanted.  I  found  the  old  man  at  home,  and  he  will- 
ingly offered  the  best  he  had,  —  for  Chino  the  use 
of  a  decaying  stable,  and  for  myself  a  place  to  spread 
my  blankets  in  an  old  barn,  among  rats,  bats,  nets, 
sails,  and  rudders.    His  own  quarters  were  hardly 


n6         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

better,  and  housed  a  quaint  museum  of  smells,  the 
accumulated  odors  of  half  a  century  of  fish.  I  shared 
his  supper  of  eggs,  potatoes  (which  it  was  his  fancy 
to  call  oranges),  biscuit,  and  coffee,  while  he,  at  my 
request,  told  me  a  little  of  his  history. 

He  was  an  old  Marblehead  skipper  who  had  found 
his  way  to  this  solitary  spot  as  far  back  as  the  year 
1866,  and  had  lived  here  alone  since  that  time.  (His 
Portuguese  neighbors  had  come  only  a  year  or  two 
ago.)  He  was  now  seventy-six,  but  still  followed  his 
calling,  and  had  no  idea  of  forsaking  it  yet  awhile. 
Why  should  he?  he  said.  When  he  went  in  to  Santa 
Barbara  he  saw  men  of  his  own  age  "  hanging  off  and 
on  without  wind  enough  in  their  sails  to  blow  out  a 
candle  " ;  and  look  at  him,  as  sound  as  a  fo'c'sle  bulk- 
head! Dangerous  to  handle  the  boat  alone?  Well, 
maybe ;  but  he  never  thought  of  that.  Storms?  Why, 
yes,  now  and  then.  Once  he  was  capsized,  and 
was  pretty  badly  used  up  when  a  lumber  schooner 
picked  him  up  just  before  nightfall;  but  that  was 
years  ago,  and  he  thought  the  weather  late  years 
was  n't  near  as  hard  as  it  used  to  be,  in  the  Channel. 

Maybe  I  did  n't  know  that  there  used  to  be  a  sight 
of  whaling  went  on  right  here  at  the  old  Cojo  land- 
ing ;  not  so  long  ago  as  I  'd  think,  neither.  The  whal- 
ers' camp  was  right  below  there,  and  they  would 
tow  the  whales  —  California  grays,  they  were, 
mostly  —  to  shore  and  cut  them  up  and  try  out  the 
blubber  on  the  beach.  "You  see,  there  was  n't  so 
many  places  along  this  piece  of  coast  where  you 


A    MARBLEHEAD    SKIPPER         117 

could  beach  a  boat,  anyway,  so  the  Cojo  was  quite 
a  place  in  them  days." 

And  had  I  ever  heard  of  the  school  the  priests  used 
to  have  a  few  miles  up  the  country?  It  was  for  teach- 
ing the  boys  to  be  priests,  and  now  and  then  some  of 
them  boys  would  break  away,  and  run  off  down  here, 
and  he  would  row  them  out  to  some  ship  that  came 
near  in,  like  they  generally  do  coming  round  Con- 
ception. The  old  fellow  chuckled  delightedly  over 
this  reminiscence,  as  a  smuggler  would  over  the 
"shooting"  of  a  rich  cargo  of  contraband. 

When  I  appeared  by  appointment  for  breakfast, 
at  a  quarter-past  four,  I  found  that  he  had  already 
taken  his  own,  and  was  ready  to  go  out  for  the  morn- 
ing catch.  I  hinted  that  I  should  like  to  accompany 
him,  but  he  ignored  the  suggestion,  evidently  feeling 
that  landlubbers  were  best  ashore.  He  left  me  to 
close  up  the  house  when  I  was  ready  to  move, 
cautioning  me  to  see  that  the  chickens  were  shut 
in  their  coop,  or  the  coyotes  would  surely  get  them. 

So  he  took  the  fat  gray  horse,  and  I  watched  them 
drag  the  boat  down  to  the  water,  and  saw  him  shove 
off,  leaving  the  horse  tied  on  the  beach  ready  to 
haul  up  the  boat  on  his  return.  Plucky  old  Yankee 
skipper!  Some  day  the  old  gray  horse  may  wait 
over-long,  and  master  and  boat  may  come  home  at 
last  in  evil  plight,  thrown  up,  mere  drift,  by  the  in- 
different sea.  But,  meanwhile,  "we  never  think  of 
that." 

I  stopped  to  chat  again  with  the  Portuguese  as  I 


n8        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

passed,  for  I  felt  an  interest  in  meeting  these  country- 
men of  Da  Gamaand  Magellan.  Dark,  active,  crisp- 
looking  fellows,  they  were  very  different  from  the 
American  or  English  fisherman  type ;  but  they  fitted 
well  into  the  picture  that  came  to  my  mind,  of 
caracks,  caravels,  arquebusiers,  and  marineros,  — 

"And  past  the  headland,  northward  slowly  drifting, 
The  freighted  galleon." 

This  was  the  type  of  men  who  went  flitting  about 
uncharted  and  all  but  fabulous  seas  under  the  flag 
of  the  Navigator  Prince.  Midday  found  me  still 
lounging  there,  and  I  was  invited  to  eat  dinner  with 
them.  The  wife  of  one,  a  smiling,  handsome  woman, 
speaking  excellent  English,  had  prepared  a  delicious 
meal,  my  offer  of  payment  for  which  was  generously 
scouted.  The  husband  and  one  of  the  other  men,  as 
I  learned  casually  at  table,  had  been  capsized  the 
week  before,  while  the  wife  had  helplessly  watched 
them  through  the  glass  for  twelve  hours  as  they 
clung  to  the  bottom  of  their  boat. 

Two  miles  farther  on  I  passed  Government  Point, 
where  lay  the  bones  of  a  small  steamer,  the  Shasta, 
wrecked  here  a  few  years  ago;  and  then,  striking 
across  a  wide,  sandy  plateau,  another  mile  brought 
us  to  Point  Conception  and  the  neat  white  buildings 
of  the  lighthouse  station.  I  had  brought  a  note  of 
introduction  to  the  keeper,  and  found  myself  a  bone 
of  hospitable  contention  between  him  and  his  next 
in  command. 

The  lighthouse  is  an  important  one,  with  a  light 


NIGHT   AT   A    LIGHTHOUSE         119 

of  the  "first  order  Fresnel  system,"  visible  for 
forty  miles,  and  a  fog-horn  whose  range  I  do  not  re- 
member, but  which  I  should  estimate  as  of  about  ten 
thousand  newsboy-power.  The  building  stands  on  a 
bold  angle  of  this  great  seaward  promontory,  and 
carries  its  lantern  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above 
the  water.  The  night  I  passed  there  was  densely 
foggy,  and,  while  sharing  the  watch  of  the  second 
officer,  I  found  it  fascinating  to  pace  for  the  mid- 
night hour  about  the  rocky  platform,  dank  and  slip- 
pery with  the  mist,  listening  to  the  maelstrom  of 
swirling,  roaring  water,  and  the  grim  hail  of  the 
syren,  bellowing  to  unseen  ships  its  warning  against 
the  treachery  of  the  fog — "  Ro-o-o-o-o-o-ocks ! " 
and  again,  over  and  over,  "  Ro-o-o-o-o-o-ocks  I " 
A  terrible  sound  to  strike  the  ear  of  seaman  or  sea- 
traveller,  too  near!  Too  late  for  warning,  it  turns  to 
a  cry  for  help,  often,  alas!  too  late  for  that,  as  well. 
A  sight  that  I  shall  long  remember  was  that  of  the 
sixteen  great  moving  bars  of  light  marked  on  the  fog 
like  spokes  of  a  gigantic  wheel.  As  the  huge  lens  re- 
volved on  its  bearings,  the  white  beams  travelled 
slowly,  smoothly  round,  searching  the  fog  inch  by 
inch  as  if  to  discover  what  it  might  be  hiding,  — 
doomed  ship,  or  shipwrecked  men  in  boat  or  raft, 
drowning  sailor  clutching  at  a  spar,  or  pallid  bodies 
of  the  dead.  As  the  rays  passed  in  turn  over  the  face 
of  rock  behind  the  tower,  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
started  out  of  the  gloom  as  if  they,  too,  were  dead 
and  suffered  an  unwilling  resurrection.     It  was  a 


120        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

relief  after  a  while  to  climb  again  to  the  tower  and 
join  my  friend  in  the  commonplace  comforts  of 
coffee  and  cigars,  until  four  o'clock  and  daybreak 
ended  his  watch  and  sent  us  to  bed.  My  last  waking 
sensation  was  the  shriek  of  the  fog-horn,  still  on 
duty,  —  "  Ro-o-o-o-o-o-ocks  !  " 

Point  Conception  forms  the  western  abutment  of 
the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains,  the  elbow,  as  it  were, 
to  the  humerus.  Here  ends  the  long  westerly  trend 
of  the  shore,  which  from  this  point  bends  sharply 
northward.  I  looked  with  interest  to  see  what  lay 
next  before  me.  What  I  saw  was  a  bluff,  rocky  coast, 
shut  off  at  a  few  miles'  distance  by  the  promontory 
of  Point  Arguello;  and,  looming  above  a  wilderness 
of  broken  mountains,  one  impressive  peak,  El  Tran- 
quillon.  (Some  one  had  a  happy  inspiration  in  that 
name.)  The  railway  here  follows  the  shore  closely, 
with  the  road,  now  a  somewhat  better  one,  accom- 
panying it. 

In  my  mental  survey  of  the  coast  of  the  State,  I 
had  always  found  it  fall  naturally  into  three  divi- 
sions: a  southern,  from  the  Mexican  boundary  to 
this  salient  angle;  a  central,  from  here  to  San  Fran- 
cisco; and  a  northern,  thence  to  the  Oregon  line. 
Dana,  also,  whose  observation  extended  from  San 
Diego  to  San  Francisco,  viewing  the  coast  in  the 
large  way  of  a  sailor,  remarks  that  "  Point  Concep- 
tion may  be  made  the  dividing  line  between  two 
different  faces  of  the  country.  As  you  go  to  the  north- 
ward of  the  point,  the  country  becomes  more  wooded, 


THE  JALAMA  121 

has  a  richer  appearance,  and  is  better  supplied  with 
water."  So,  in  leaving  Point  Conception,  I  felt  the 
stimulus  of  new  expectations;  and  the  prospect  of 
trees  in  greater  number  and  variety  made  a  special 
attraction. 

The  first  few  miles  of  our  new  road,  however, 
proved  barren  of  event  and  even  of  water.  All  the 
morning  we  travelled  a  dusty  road,  far  enough  from 
the  cliff  edge  to  be  shut  off  from  view  of  the  sea,  and 
bordered  on  the  other  hand  by  tedious  hills  robed 
in  summer  monotony  of  brown.  About  noon  we 
crossed  the  railway  and  came  down  to  the  beach  near 
the  mouth  of  the  Jalama  Creek.  There  is  a  spring 
of  warm  sulphur  water  here,  whose  virtues  for  bath- 
ing I  should  have  liked  to  test;  but  trains,  whose 
schedule  I  did  not  know,  passed  unduly  near,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  refrain. 

I  had  been  told  that  I  ought  to  see  the  old  Jalama 
Ranch,  which  lay  a  few  miles  inland.  It  is  now  de- 
serted, and  is  said  to  have  been  an  appanage  of  the 
neighboring  Mission  of  La  Purfsima  Concepci6n  in 
the  days  of  its  prosperity:  indeed,  I  heard  it  spoken 
of  by  the  Mexicans  as  the  Mission  of  San  Francis- 
quito.  A  romantic  trail  led  to  it  by  way  of  a  valley 
of  great  shaggy  oaks.  I  passed  an  old  orchard  where 
vines  still  grew  rampant  of  leaf,  though  fruitless, 
and,  a  little  farther  on,  the  remains  of  a  cellar-like 
wine-vat  of  masonry,  overflowing  now  with  phe- 
nomenal nettles  and  lively  with  bright-eyed  lizards. 

The  old  ranch  itself  occupies  a  shady,  dell-like 


122        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

spot  at  the  junction  of  two  creeks  that  made  music 
through  all  the  vale.  I  walked  under  avenues  of  an- 
cient olives  which  met  overhead  and  whitened  the 
grass  with  myriads  of  starry  blossoms,  —  a  habit 
of  this  tree  by  which  one  of  Job's  obnoxious  friends 
illustrated  the  fate  of  the  wicked,  who  "shall  cast 
off  his  flower  as  the  olive."  Two  huge,  poplar-like 
pear  trees  were  heavy  with  fruit,  and  there  were  the 
remains  of  an  efficient  hedge  of  the  tuna  cactus. 
Altogether  it  is  a  beautiful  and  interesting  place, 
and  if  any  one  wishes  to  make  me  a  present  of  the 
San  Julian  Ranch,  on  which  it  lies,  I  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  deciding  where  to  build  my  country  seat. 
I  returned  to  the  coast  by  sundown,  and  pitched 
camp  on  the  bluff  beyond  the  creek.  Near  by  was  a 
black  and  eyeless  ruin  of  adobe,  the  old  ranch-house 
of  the  Espada.  After  getting  my  supper  I  walked 
over  to  inspect  it.  As  I  passed  the  doorless  entrance 
of  one  of  the  rooms  I  caught  a  whiff  of  tobacco,  and 
a  voice  from  the  gloom  hailed  me  with,  "Come  in, 
partner;  lots  of  room."  I  hope  I  am  as  good  a  demo- 
crat as  the  average  man,  but  I  confess  I  was  a  little 
nettled  at  the  cordiality  of  this  greeting,  evidently 
from  a  brother  tramp.  However,  I  put  a  good  face 
on  it  and  entered.  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  red 
tip  of  a  cigarette  and  the  twin  high-light  of  a  bril- 
liant nose;  but  the  voice  in  which  I  was  invited  to  sit 
down  on  a  box  which  I  should  find  by  the  door  had 
a  guileless  tone,  and  even  a  hint  of  timidity,  and  my 
foolish  resentment  faded  away. 


TRAMP   COMPANY  AGAIN  123 

So  we  sat  and  exchanged  judicious  explanations; 
or  rather,  I  sat  and  he  lay,  for  he  announced  that  he 
had  gone  to  bed  (no  elaborate  ceremony,  I  suspect). 
I  could  tell  that  he  was  a  man  of  fair  education,  even 
before  he  confided  to  me  that  he  was  the  son  of  a 
well-to-do  Ohio  farmer,  and  had  thrown  up  good 
prospects  when  the  wanderlust  caught  him,  twenty 
years  before.  I  could  but  admire  the  philosophy  of 
his  conclusion:  he  "thought  sometimes  that  he  might 
have  made  a  mistake."  There  is  much  virtue  in 
"might."  After  all,  to  the  actual  bad  there  is  al- 
ways a  possible  worse,  and  still  beyond  that  there 
lies  a  whole  unknown  region  of  superlative. 

I  invited  my  neighbor  to  breakfast  with  me,  and 
looked  forward  with  some  curiosity  to  the  meeting 
by  daylight.  He  proved  to  be  a  tall,  middle-aged, 
pathetic  man,  weak  of  mouth  and  eye,  buttoned  and 
safety-pinned  into  a  long  overcoat.  He  was  loud  in 
enthusiasm  (genuine  enough,  poor  fellow,  I  have  no 
doubt)  over  my  camping  appliances.  The  little 
sleeping-tent  was  a  marvel,  only  possible  because 
extant;  almost  more  incredible  were  my  white  enam- 
elled  cups  and  plates;  he  became  incoherent  over 
the  coffee,  and  could  only  express  his  admiration  for 
all  in  such  impressive  generalizations  as  "Well!  I 
call  this  living!"  or,  "Don't  that  knock  you,  now?" 
When  we  parted  Chino's  load  was  lighter  by  my 
duplicate  set  of  enamel-ware  and  half  my  supply  of 

Coffer. 

As  I  passed  the  neat  house  of  a  small  ranch  Dear 


124        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  road,  I  halted  to  make  an  inquiry  as  to  the  road. 
The  rancher,  a  young.  Spaniard,  proved  so  affable 
that  our  conversation  extended  until  noon,  when  I 
was  invited  to  join  the  family  for  a  meal.  Both 
Senor  O.  and  his  wife  were  of  families  that  figure 
largely  in  the  ante-American  history  of  California, 
and  here  again  I  experienced  the  open-hearted  cour- 
tesy of  this  kindly  race. 

A  few  miles  inland  from  here  was  the  town  of 
Lompoc,  near  which  were  the  remains  of  another  of 
the  Missions,  La  Purisima  Conception.  After  a 
mile  or  two  I  struck  a  road  running  northward, 
which  made  a  fairly  direct  route  to  the  place.  A 
cold  wind  had  sprung  up,  from  which  I  hoped  to 
find  shelter  by  taking  to  the  canon  up  which  the 
road  lay.  But  I  was  sadly  mistaken,  for  the  power 
and  coldness  of  the  wind  increased  as  the  road 
climbed,  until  both  myself  and  Chino  were  in  misery. 
This,  then,  was  a  taste  of  Dana's  infamous  Point 
Conception  wind.  Harder  and  harder  it  blew,  and 
by  some  local  ingenuity  it  managed  to  come  from  all 
quarters  in  quick  succession,  or  sometimes  even 
from  all  at  once.  The  sun  shone  clearly  enough,  but 
made  not  the  least  impression  on  the  temperature. 
The  grass  and  herbage  looked  pinched  and  starving, 
and  the  very  rocks  seemed  to  cower.  Ordinarily  the 
scene  would  have  been  interesting,  though  not  spe- 
cially pleasing;  —  the  weird  yellow  land,  treeless, 
silent,  and  uninhabited  for  league  on  league;  the 
stark,  hard  sky;  the  glimpse  of  indigo  sea  behind; 


AN    INEXPLICABLE    FAMILY        125 

and  the  pale  lilac  road  winding  interminably  away 
till  it  became  a  mere  scratch  of  gray  on  the  great  hill- 
shoulders  that  lifted  to  the  distant  sky-line.  It  was 
picturesque,  or  posteresque,  in  an  odd,  clever  way, 
but  under  that  confounded  wind  it  looked  abject, 
bald,  and  almost  hideous. 

At  last,  to  my  vast  relief,  the  divide  was  crossed, 
and  we  dropped  into  peace  and  comfort.  The  con- 
trast within  twenty  yards  was  amazing.  A  soft  sun 
lighted  a  landscape  varied  with  trees,  fields  of  grain, 
and  cattle-spotted  pastures.  Beside  the  road  stood 
a  little  farmhouse  in  a  bright  garden  of  flowers.  A 
stream  ran  in  a  pretty  canon  that  opened  eastward, 
and  here  we  stopped  to  regain  our  tranquillity  and 
eat  our  lunch.  Then  I  went  up  to  the  farmhouse  to 
assure  myself  of  my  road.  A  solemn  man  and  boy, 
in  Quakerish,  wide-brimmed  hats,  and  who  were 
apparently  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  house  to  return 
to  work,  answered  my  knock.  An  incomprehensible 
scene,  over  which  I  have  pondered  more  than  once, 
met  my  gaze  as  the  door  was  opened.  By  the  table, 
where,  evidently,  a  meal  had  just  been  despatched, 
stood  two  heavy-looking,  middle-aged  women,  each 
with  a  wreath  of  flowers  on  her  head.  Their  eyes 
were  bent  upon  the  floor,  and  for  all  sign  to  the  con- 
trary they  might  have  been  graven  images.  Not  a 
move  was  made  during  the  two  or  three  minutes 
that  I  remained  there.  They  stood  facing  me,  side  by 
side,  solid,  stolid,  and  silent.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
they  had  all  been  going  to  dance,  or  had  just  done  so : 


126        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

but  in  view  of  the  bearing  and  physiognomy  of  all 
four,  the  idea  was  ludicrous  to  the  last  degree.  Is 
there,  I  wonder,  some  quaint  and  serious  sect  whose 
daily  ritual  includes  a  minuet  auxfleurs  after  dinner? 

I  had  not  gone  far  before  I  heard  the  man  and  boy 
coming  up  behind.  They  walked  side  by  side  with 
long,  marching  steps,  and  each  carried  a  shovel. 
Without  a  word  or  a  look  they  stalked  by,  like 
' '  ships  that  pass  in  the  night. ' '  I  watched  them  until 
they  turned  in  at  a  gate  that  led  to  a  hillside  field  of 
grain.  There  they  passed  beyond  my  ken,  but  for  a 
long  time  they  haunted  my  camp-fires  like  some 
hopeless  conundrum. 

The  country  I  now  found  myself  in  was  of  an  un- 
usual character.  The  canon  ran  between  high  hills, 
broken  with  cliffs  and  darkly  variegated  with  solid 
clumps  of  trees.  Farmhouses  were  perched  pre- 
cariously on  these  steep  slopes,  and  a  fringe  of  tim- 
ber wavered  along  the  sky-line.  At  the  bottom  ran 
the  creek,  growing  apace,  and  the  road,  which  fol- 
lowed it,  was  quite  charming,  often  overlaced  with 
oaks,  and  bordered  with  high  banks  on  which  honey- 
suckle, wild  roses,  wallflowers,  and  many  other  wild- 
ling  favorites  grew  among  jungles  of  grass  and  thick- 
ets of  prosperous  weeds.  The  occasional  roadside 
houses  stood  among  cherry  and  apple  trees;  and  al- 
together the  region  looked  interesting,  homelike, 
and  cheerful. 

By  evening  I  found  myself  on  the  outskirts  of 
Lompoc.  This  is  a  town  of  quite  respectable  size, 


CHINESE    FREEMASONS  127 

but  of  sedate  and  village-like  aspect.  The  locality 
is  famous  for  its  farming,  and  a  branch  of  the  rail- 
way comes  down  from  the  coast.  The  principal  crop 
is  mustard,  fields  of  which  lie  all  about  the  town, 
while  yellow-blossomed  stragglers  invade  the  vacant 
lots  and  corners.  On  a  side  street  I  passed  a  red- 
and-green  balconied  house  on  which  appeared  the 
sign  "Yee  Hing,  Chinese  Freemasons'  Headquar- 
ters." This  had  a  queer  look.  I  tried  to  conjecture 
what  mongrel  rites  might  be  celebrated  within.  It 
was  not  easy,  but  so  far  as  secrecy  is  concerned,  at 
least,  one  can  understand  that  these  impenetrable 
people  are  well  fitted  to  be  adepts. 

There  is  a  considerable  Spanish  and  Mexican 
population  in  this  old  town.  I  had  brought  a  letter 
of  introduction  to  Don  Camilo  R.,  the  head  of  one 
of  the  old  Spanish-Californian  families,  and  formerly 
the  owner  of  a  great  grant  of  land  farther  north.  I 
found  him  living  in  a  cottage  of  four  or  five  little 
rooms,  and  my  interview  with  him  and  his  wife  was 
most  pleasant.  The  tall  old  don,  in  his  black  silk 
skull-cap,  was  like  a  Vandyke  picture;  and  his  man- 
ner was  a  fine  fusion  of  dignity,  simplicity,  and  cor- 
diality. It  was  delightful  to  watch  him  romping 
with  his  sturdy  baby  grandson,  and  to  hear  him  pro- 
nounce over  and  over  again,  with  innocent  pride  in 
his  English,  the  name  of  his  son  "Beth,"  whom  I 
was  charged  to  call  upon  on  my  way  up  country. 
The  vivacious  dona  bustled  about  to  get  me  after- 
noon tea,  "as  every  day  in  England  they  have  it,  — 


128        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

is  it  not  true?"  No  hospitality  could  be  more  gra- 
cious, and,  I  will  add,  more  touching.  It  was  not 
only  kindness,  but  honor  that  they  would  heap  upon 
me.  Whenever  I  hear  (as  I  often  do)  disparaging 
words  spoken  of  the  Spanish  race,  I  have  only  to  re- 
call that  simple  meal  and  those  delightful  people  to 
range  myself  without  hesitation  on  their  side. 

As  I  came  into  Lompoc  I  had  passed  the  ruins  of 
the  original  Mission  of  La  Purisima  Conception,  dis- 
tinguished now  as  the  Mision  Vieja,  or  old  Mission, 
to  mark  it  from  its  successor.  It  is  little  more  than 
a  heap  of  adobes,  but  a  great  crack  still  shows  the 
means  of  its  demolition,  by  earthquake.  The  second 
Mission  was  built  some  three  miles  to  the  northwest 
of  the  town,  where,  next  day,  I  found  it  sleeping  in 
gentler  decay  among  sober  brown  hills  and  acres  of 
mustard  and  beans.  It,  too,  has  long  been  disused, 
and,  as  with  Santa  Ines,  the  heavy  rains  of  the  last 
spring  had  wrought  havoc  with  the  unroofed  walls 
of  adobe.  A  long  row  of  filleted  pillars  and  one  or 
two  door  and  window  openings  alone  give  coherence 
to  the  ruin.  Wild  mustard  waved  in  profusion 
around  and  within  the  precincts.  I  pitched  camp 
on  a  clear  spot  among  the  tangle  of  weeds,  and 
passed  a  quiet  Sunday  in  wandering  about  the  old 
place,  and  in  the  company  of  quail,  doves,  and  squir- 
rels, and  echoes  and  fancies  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Pine  Canon  —  The  Burton  Mesa  —  Camp  on  the  San  Antonio  — 
The  Sierra  Santa  Lucia  in  view  —  Casmalia  and  the  Todos 
Santos  —  A  fine  seascape  —  Point  Sal:  friendly  entertainers  — 
A  Spanish  Petruchio  —  Fog  and  rough  trail  —  Guadalupe  — 
Humors  of  fence  advertising  —  The  Valley  and  town  of  Santa 
Maria  —  Southern  California  left  behind  —  "Hunting  a  loca- 
tion" —  The  Nipomo  Valley:  the  Dana  family  —  Arroyo  Grande 
Valley  —  San  Luis  Obispo  Bay  —  An  Indian  burying-place  —  A 
Portuguese  legend  —  The  Avilas  of  Avila:  more  Spanish-Cali- 
fornian  hospitality:  Shakespeare  and  the  drama  of  California. 

From  the  mouth  of  the  Santa  Ynez  River,  which 
is  a  few  miles  northwest  of  Lompoc,  the  coast 
for  fifteen  miles  or  so  is  low,  sandy,  waterless,  and, 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  distance,  roadless.  When 
I  added  to  these  unsavory  items  the  probability  of 
that  dismal  wind  still  blowing  on  the  coast,  I  searched 
the  map  for  some  better  way ;  and  decided  to  take  a 
road  that  ran  north  by  way  of  Pine  Canon,  parallel 
with  the  coast  but  a  few  miles  inland. 

We  crossed  the  river  by  a  wide  ford.  Chino  was 
excited  this  morning,  walking  fast  and  nervously, 
evidently  for  some  reason  in  a  hurry  to  get  away 
from  La  Purfsima.  I  had  tethered  him  at  night  in  a 
rather  ghostly-looking  angle  of  the  Mission  wall,  for 
shelter  from  the  wind;  and  his  present  behavior 
made  me  wonder  whether  my  good  horse  might  not 
have  a  streak  of  superstition  in  his  make-up. 


i3o        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

I  found  Pine  Canon  as  attractive  as  its  name.  The 
road  was  enclosed  by  steep  hills  wooded  with  oaks 
and  small  pines,  and  water  and  pasturage  were  plen- 
tiful. The  pine  is  ever  my  best-loved  tree,  and  these 
were  the  first  of  the  family  that  I  had  come  among 
directly  since  I  started.  I  was  tempted  to  make  a 
camp,  but  it  was  only  midday  when  we  came  to  the 
head  of  the  canon,  and  found  ourselves  at  the  edge 
of  a  wide,  flat  expanse  known  as  the  Burton  Mesa, 
which  stretches  west  and  north  unbroken  for  miles. 
Across  this  we  took  our  tedious  way  through  leagues 
of  oats  uninterrupted  by  house  or  fence,  and  but 
little  enlivened  by  a  few  haggard,  wind-blown  oaks. 
Only  once  I  saw  a  wagon  passing  "hull  down"  on 
the  distant  horizon  of  oats,  as  if  it  had  been  a  ship 
at  sea.  To  the  north  rose  a  low  range  of  whitish 
shaly  hills,  and  I  thought  I  descried  a  derrick  or  two 
at  its  foot.  It  was  a  depressing  landscape.  No  birds 
seemed  to  inhabit  it,  and  the  only  sound  over  all  the 
wide  space  was  the  long  whisper  of  the  oats.  The 
sparse  flowers  looked  lonely  and  frightened;  even 
the  poppies  seemed  to  have  lost  their  broad  yellow 
smile.  I  was  glad  when  an  abrupt  descent  took  us 
down  to  the  San  Antonio  Creek.  A  large  ranch- 
house  stood  on  a  knoll  beside  it,  but  all  up  and  down 
the  long  valley  no  human  being  was  in  sight.  We 
crossed  the  creek,  and  among  a  clump  of  Lear-like, 
moss-draped  oaks  on  a  sidehill  I  made  camp. 

The  cottonwoods  that  grew  along  the  creek  bot- 
tom made  quarters  for  a  large  colony  of  crows.    I 


CAMP   ON   THE  SAN    ANTONIO      131 

like  these  loud,  cheerful  blackguards  that  carry  off 
their  iniquities  with  such  bravado.  The  sound  when 
they  came  swinging  home  at  bedtime  was  like  a 
crowd  cheering  the  orator  of  the  day;  and  when 
they  began  to  shout  and  scuffle  over  the  desirable 
perches,  Chino  looked  round  at  me  from  his  grazing 
in  amazement  at  such  behavior.  A  rattling  chorus 
came  already  from  the  frogs  in  the  creek,  and  before 
supper  was  over  the  owls  opened  in  unusual  variety 
of  song;  nor,  unhappily,  was  the  impish  note  of  the 
mosquito  absent  from  the  concert. 

I  turned  in  early,  and  smoked  my  after-dinner 
pipe  in  bed,  chatting  with  Chino  and  watching  the 
stars  winking  through  the  leafy  canopy.  The  rum- 
ble of  surf  came  to  me  from  four  miles  away  with  a 
peculiar  deep  tone  that  was  due,  perhaps,  to  its  be- 
ing conveyed  partly  through  the  earth.  Then  I  felt 
some  small  animal,  probably  mole  or  gopher,  shov- 
ing at  me  from  below.  With  moonrise  there  arose 
also  an  indescribable  hubbub  of  coyotes.  Och-0-0- 
o-onel  Och-o-o-o-o-o-one !  they  went,  like  mourn- 
ers at  a  wake.  To  these  dulcet  sounds  I  fell  asleep, 
and  knew  no  more  until  Chino  called  me  at  first 
daylight,  whinnying  to  be  let  loose  to  graze. 

Our  way  next  morning  was  up  a  long  canon  with  a 
frightfully  bad  road.  There  was  compensation  in 
the  beauty  of  the  oaks,  which  shaded  the  way  with 
an  almost  solid  firmament  of  foliage.  At  the  head  of 
the  canon  I  looked  out  upon  a  long  desired  sight,  — 
the  distant  highlands  of  the  Sierra  Santa  Lucia,  ly- 


i32        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

ing  low  and  blue  in  the  north.  For  years  I  had  been 
waiting  my  chance  to  get  at  that  little-travelled 
range,  and  it  had  formed,  in  fact,  a  main  induce- 
ment in  planning  the  summer's  trip.  Now  that  at 
last  it  was  coming  within  striking  distance,  I  gazed 
at  it  with  special  interest,  trying  to  forecast  from 
the  dim  and  tumbled  outlines  some  features  of  con- 
tour, timber,  or  stream. 

A  long  grade  took  us  down  to  the  valley  of  the 
Todos  Santos,  through  which  comes  the  railroad  on 
its  way  to  the  coast  a  few  miles  to  the  southward. 
At  the  foot  I  found  the  village  of  Casmalia.  Half 
of  its  score  or  so  of  houses  were  closed,  and  hotel  and 
store  were  vacant  and  dismantled.  I  was  glad  that 
I  had  stayed  the  last  night  on  the  San  Antonio 
instead  of  pushing  on  to  this  cheerless  place.  I  sat 
for  a  few  moments  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel  while  I 
condoled  with  an  old  Casmalian.  "Why,  yes,"  he 
mourned,  "the  barley  and  beans  looks  good,  but  the 
Tody  Santy  ain't  what  she  useter  bin.  Them  oil 
strikes  in  the  Santy  Maree  jest  plumb  cleaned  this 
hull  country  out  o'  ranch-hands.  You  'd  'a'  thought 
't  was  whiskey  they'd  struck,  'stead  of  oil."  This 
pregnant  remark  gained  point  when,  on  passing  the 
saloon  a  few  minutes  later,  I  noted  the  speaker's 
figure  in  expressive  posture  at  the  bar. 

A  belt  of  broken  country  here  extends  to  the  ocean, 
ending  in  a  fine  headland  at  Point  Sal.  It  looked  so 
interesting  that  I  turned  westward  to  see  what  the 
coast  might  be  like.   Following  an  almost  disused 


POINT   SAL  133 

road  for  a  few  miles  through  rolling  cattle-range  I 
came  upon  a  striking  landscape.  A  strong  wind 
blew  from  the  west,  and  before  it  the  fog  rolled  in, 
gray,  chill,  and  gloomy.  Southward  stretched  ashore 
ot  sandy  barrens  on  which  huge  breakers  thundered, 
with  a  power  that  betokened  that  a  considerable 
storm  had  blown  at  sea.  Beyond  a  mile  all  outline 
was  lost  in  the  smother  of  flying  sand  and  spray. 
Now  and  again  a  pale  gleam  of  sun  flooded  the  scene 
with  strange  dull  tones  of  color:  the  heavy  water 
showed  yellow  through  the  pallid  wash  of  foam,  and 
the  wastes  of  sand  took  on  a  sickly  tinge  of  ochre. 
To  the  northwest  the  point  showed  dark  and  misty 
between  the  upper  and  nether  firmaments  of  the  fog. 
At  five  miles'  distance  I  could  see  the  flash  of  the 
waves  as  they  burst  and  rushed  wildly  up  the  face 
of  the  cliffs.  All  combined  to  interpret  the  intrinsic 
sadness,  the  ageless  passion,  of  the  sea. 

It  was  hard  to  turn  away  from  this  superb  sight, 
but  evening  was  coming  on,  and  the  nightly  prob- 
lems of  water  and  forage  waited  to  be  solved.  A 
mile  farther  on  I  met  two  horsemen,  one  evidently 
American,  the  other  Mexican,  who  reined  up  and 
Beemed  to  await  an  explanation.  When  I  inquired 
the  prospects  for  making  camp  the  reply  was  dis- 
couraging. I  was  told  that  the  road  had  been  aban- 
doned; i  OOUld  not  CrOSS  the  mountains  by  it,  and 
must  turn  back.  I  answered  that  with  a  saddle- 
horse  I  thought  I  could  get  through,  and  anyway  I 
meant  to  try.    To  this  the  American  replied  that  the 


134        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

road  was  fenced  across  and  the  gates  nailed  up.  He 
was  foreman  vaquero  on  this  range,  and  no  one  but 
his  own  family  lived  farther  on.  I  saw  that  for  some 
reason  I  was  regarded  with  suspicion,  and  it  seemed 
best  to  make  plain  the  innocent  nature  of  my  inten- 
tions. The  explanation  brought  a  welcome  change 
of  attitude.  The  hospitable  American  instinct  came 
into  play,  and  I  was  told  that  I  might  go  on  to  the 
ranch-house,  where  I  was  welcome  to  stay  the  night. 

An  hour's  travel  took  us  to  the  house.  I  saw  no 
one  about  the  place,  and  my  knock  was  not  at  once 
answered.  The  first  thing  that  came  in  view  as  the 
door  was  opened  was  a  rifle,  evidently  held  by  the 
person  who  opened  it.  This  proved  to  be  the  fore- 
man's wife,  and  to  her  I  related  my  meeting  with 
her  husband.  I  suppose  my  appearance  backed  up 
my  story,  for  the  rifle  was  laid  aside  and  I  was  in- 
vited to  put  up  my  horse  and  make  myself  at  home 
until  supper-time.  By  then  the  husband  had  re- 
turned, and  the  meal  was  enjoyable  with  racy  table- 
talk  as  well  as  with  good  fare.  They  were  Oklaho- 
mans,  not  long  in  California,  and  full  of  entertaining 
comments  and  comparisons.  I  was  struck  by  the 
feeling  for  natural  beauty  which  came  out  in  the 
conversation  of  this  foreman  of  cowboys.  He  spoke 
in  vivid  words  of  the  grandeur  and  mystery  of  the 
sea,  and  had  a  ready  eye  for  anything  fine  in  light 
and  shade,  or  in  canon  and  mountain  contour. 

From  the  daughter  of  a  former  owner  of  the  Point 
Sal  Ranch,  whom  I  met  a  day  or  two  later  at  Santa 


POINT   SAL  135 

Maria,  I  gained  some  interesting  particulars  re- 
garding the  place.  I  had  noticed  near  the  ranch- 
house  an  odd-shaped  little  building,  looking  like  a 
lost  summer-house.  I  found  that  it  had  been  the  deck 
cabin  of  a  ship  that  was  wrecked  on  the  point.  The 
captain  and  his  little  daughter,  and  some  of  the  crew, 
were  buried  on  the  hill  above  the  house,  —  no  bad 
resting-place  for  storm-beaten  seaman,  but  bleak 
and  pitiful  for  that  little  daughter! 

The  remains  of  a  cable  landing  on  the  cliff  above 
the  quiet  water  inside  the  point  were  a  reminder  of 
the  ante-railway  days  when  Point  Sal  Landing  was 
a  place  of  more  importance  than  now.  From  here 
a  road  went  east  by  way  of  the  Cuyama  Valley  and 
through  the  San  Rafael  Mountains  to  Fort  Tejon 
(a  name  of  epic  sound  to  Californians  of  half  a 
century  ago),  and  over  it  an  incredible  amount  of 
traffic  came  and  went  to  and  from  this  little 
shipping -place.  That  was  the  Age  of  Mules  in 
the  West,  and  on  these  primitive  mountain  roads 
teaming  rose  to  the  level  of  a  science. 

In  later  days  the  working  of  gypsum  mines  in  the 
mountains  near  by  furnished  employment  for  many 
men,  and  there  had  been  some  excitement  over  the 
discovery  of  gold  in  the  sands  of  the  beach,  and  ru- 
mors of  a  rich  mine  hidden  in  some  cave  known  to 
the  Indians  and  only  to  be  reached  by  boats  at  low 
tide  and  at  risk  of  life.  From  time  to  time  treasure- 
seekers  were  trapped  on  the  shore  by  the  water, 
so  the  good  old  gentleman,  my  informant's  father, 


136        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

kept  a  stake,  with  rope  attached,  on  the  cliff-edge, 
by  which  more  than  one  rash  gold-hunter  had 
climbed  back  to  safety. 

I  learned  further  that  in  the  vicissitudes  of  things 
Californian  the  ranch  had  once  changed  owners  for 
the  consideration  of  a  yoke  of  oxen  and  a  bottle  of 
wine ;  and  there  was  a  full-flavored  story  of  some  old 
Spanish  Petruchio  of  the  region  who  had  tied  his 
scolding  wife  to  a  tree,  cut  off  her  hair,  and  braided 
it  into  a  pair  of  bridle-reins.  This  doughty  don 
seems  to  have  had  a  passion  for  the  bizarre.  He  is 
said  to  have  possessed  a  string  of  dried  ears  collected 
from  enemies  he  had  slain;  which  quaint  souvenir 
his  daughter  was  wont  to  wear  as  a  necklace  at  balls 
and  fandangos.  With  such  legends,  or  histories, 
are  many  of  these  lonely  holes  and  corners  of  Cali- 
fornia illuminated. 

I  slept  well  in  the  old  barn,  which  I  shared  with 
Chino  and  some  families  of  swallows  that  had  built 
in  the  gable.  Next  morning  my  host  put  me  on  the 
obliterated  road  that  climbed  the  mountain,  and 
I  bade  the  kindly  people  good-bye.  The  scene  again 
was  fascinating.  The  wind  had  fallen  somewhat, 
but  still  came  from  the  sea,  and  freighted  with 
gloomy  masses  of  fog.  Again  and  again  the  cold 
white  mist  enclosed  us,  or  streamed  more  darkly 
overhead,  to  break  away  with  bewildering  sudden- 
ness and  reveal  the  long,  dark  headland  hooded  with 
cloud,  its  foot  whitened  every  moment  by  the  tear- 
ing claws  of  the  sea.    It  was  like  a  page  of  Ossian, 


FOG    AND    ROUGH    TRAIL  137 

and  the  short  mountain  grass  trembling  in  the  wind, 
with  the  purple  thistles  ranked  beside  the  path,  were 
suited  to  the  scene. 

Now  and  then  came  the  hoarse  barking  of  seals  on 
the  rocks  a  thousand  feet  below,  —  that 

"  Deep  seal-roar  that  beats  off  shore  above  the  loudest  gale." 

It  was  altogether  the  finest,  because  the  wildest, 
piece  of  weather,  scenery,  and  sentiment  all  mingled 
that  I  had  met  on  the  whole  expedition.  I  even 
shouted  aloud  never  mind  what  —  in  my  excite- 
ment, giving  Chino  such  a  start  (hereby  that  he 
came  near  pitching  me  over  the  cliff. 

So  far  we  had  been  climbing  steeply,  but  keep- 
ing near  the  shore.  Now  the  track  struck  directly 
northward,  and  I  regretfully  bade  adieu  to  that  wild 
and  lonely  coast.  The  path  was  difficult  to  keep,  and 
often  I  lost  it  on  the  wide  and  down-like  hillsides.  At 
last  we  reached  the  summit,  in  a  dense  smother  of  fog 
that  made  it  impossible  to  travel  at  all  for  half  an 
h<>ur.  Then  I  found  that  we  were  shut  in  bya  barbed- 
wire  fence,  and  it  was  another  half-hour  before  I 
could  get  the  wires  down  so  that  Chino  could  step 
over. 

Finally  rounding  the  Bhoulder  of  the  mountain 

I  came  in  Bight  of"  the  Coast    to  the  northward.     It 

ran  again  h>r  a  long  distance  in  trackless  dunes;  and 
I  determined  t«>  Btrikeonce  more  inland  until  1  could 
return  to  tin-  bolder  coast  that  musl  begin  at  the 
southern  end  of  the  Santa  Lucias.    1  found  a  rough 


138        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

road  that  wound  down  the  Corralillos  Canon,  and 
with  one  or  two  detours  made  necessary  by  the  wash- 
ing-out of  the  track,  we  came  in  due  course  to  cul- 
tivation and  the  eternal  barley  and  beans.  As  we 
emerged  into  the  wide  Santa  Maria  Valley,  beets 
joined  in  to  make  a  trio. 

By  evening  we  reached  the  little  town  of  Guada- 
lupe. From  its  Spanish  name  I  expected  to  find  it 
old  and  interesting:  on  the  contrary,  it  was  merely 
old  and  dirty.  Half  the  place  is  Chinese,  with  the 
regulation  red-and-green  joss-house,  the  regulation 
smells,  barbarous  yellow  flags  dangling  from  bam- 
boos, and  store  names  looking  like  groups  of  excited 
tadpoles.  The  other  half  is  mixed  Portuguese  and 
Italian-Swiss,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  which  half 
was  the  more  unprepossessing. 

I  found  a  stable,  though  not  a  hostler,  for  Chino, 
and  learned  from  a  skirmishing  boy  that  the  saloon 
across  the  street  was  the  only  hotel  in  the  place.  The 
proprietor,  a  pig-like  Swiss,  wasted  no  civilities  on  a 
customer  who  had  no  choice,  and  seemed  to  resent 
a  request  for  water  and  a  towel.  For  half  the  night 
sleep  was  wrecked  by  the  din  of  bibulous  patrons.  I 
was  up  betimes,  and  hastened  away  from  Guada- 
lupe as  the  first  drowsy  Chinese  was  lighting  his 
pipe  in  the  doorway  of  his  frowsy  laundry. 

I  now  took  an  easterly  course  up  the  valley.  An 
unbroken  green  of  beets  spread  mile  on  mile,  and 
substantial  farm  buildings  gave  evidence  of  pros- 
perity.   Far  to  the  north  the  foothills  of  the  Santa 


HUMORS  OF   FENCE  ADVERTISING  139 

Lucia  took  a  hue  of  fawn  where  the  sunlight  flowed 
over  swelling  contours  of  dry  grassland,  purple 
where  companies  of  oaks  marked  out  the  canons 
and  clouded  the  higher  ridges.  The  nearer  landscape 
was  uninteresting,  and  I  was  fain  to  beguile  the  way 
with  the  unconscious  humor  of  the  fence  advertise- 
ments. Modest  efforts  like  "Goldstein's  Prices 
will  Surprise  You"  or  "  Bowen  and  Scraypen  for 
Shirts  and  a  Square  Deal "  were  varied  with  bursts  of 
Wegg-like  song,  such  as 

"Bilkem's  Shoes  are  Straight  and  our  Prices  are  Right; 
Call  in  and  see  Us,  Partner,  2  doors  past  the  P.O.  we'll  treat 
you  white." 

The  board  fence  has  never  been  given  its  due  by 
writers  on  the  Genesis  of  American  Poetry. 

Gradually  houses  became  more  frequent  and  more 
urban  in  look.  Some  of  them,  large,  new,  and  bril- 
liant with  paint  and  bougainvilleas,  I  judged  to  be 
the  residences  of  the  local  magnates  in  oil  and  beets. 
In  due  course  we  arrived  in  the  thriving  town  of 
Santa  Maria,  finding  it  dressed  in  patriotic  bunting 
in  readiness  for  Independence  Day,  close  at  hand. 
I  put  up  for  a  day,  and  found  the  place  very  attrac- 
tive the  model  of  a  progressive  Western  town;  neat, 
bright,  and  well-ordered:  a  whole  continent  apart 
in  character  from  its  aeighbor,  the  mangy  and  ill- 
favored  Guadalupe. 

Leaving  here  at  noon  of  the  next  day  I  took  a 
northward  road,  crossing  the  Santa  Maria  River, 
or,  more  exactly,  its  bed.    It  showed  a  quarter-mile 


/ 


i4o        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS' 

of  Sahara-like  sand,  without  vestige  of  water,  though 
four  months  before  the  river  had  been  running 
amuck,  bank  full  and  yellow  as  ancient  Nilus.  Here 
I  entered  the  county  of  San  Luis  Obispo.  It  opened 
hopefully,  with  a  rougher  look,  and  I  felt  by  many 
tokens  that  I  was  no  longer  in  southern  California. 
The  cross-range  of  the  Tehachapi  is  the  physical 
bar  which  gives  effect  to  the  conventional  division  of 
the  State.  It  is  the  region  south  of  the  Tehachapi 
that  constitutes  southern  California,  and  that  was 
now  finally  behind  me. 

A  mile  or  two  beyond  the  river  I  saw  two  wagons 
approaching  me,  loaded  with  household  stuff  that 
showed  some  family  on  the  wing.  In  the  first  were 
a  couple  of  rosy  young  women,  who  stopped  me  to 
ask  whether  I  had  seen  any  people  camping  in  Santa 
Maria  as  I  passed  through.  It  appeared  that  they 
were  expecting  to  overtake  there  some  advance 
guard  of  their  party.  In  the  other  wagon  were  a 
man,  a  woman,  a  sleeping  baby,  and,  as  my  ears  told 
me,  several  more  children  who  were  stowed  away 
in  the  covered  rear  end.  The  man  accosted  me  with 
"Say,  stranger,  where 're  ye  from?"  —  "Los  An- 
geles." —  "Los  Angeles,  hey?  Well,  then,  you  can 
maybe  tell  us  how  things  is  down  that  section."  I 
made  the  best  answer  I  could  to  this  rather  exten- 
sive question,  and  learned  in  turn  that  they  had  come 
down  from  southern  Idaho,  "hunting  a  location." 

There  is  a  picturesqueness  in  such  incidents,  a 
Bunyan-like  simplicity.   As  it  might  be:  "And  in 


THE    DANA   FAMILY  141 

my  journey  I  saw  a  company  that  came  to  meet  me 

in  the  way.    And  when  they  were  come  to  where  I 

was,  one  that  seemed  the  goodman  beckoned  me  as 

if  I  should  stop.    So  I  stayed,  and  we  fell  a-talking. 

'  You  are  well  met,'  said  he;  and  then  he  would  have 

me  tell  him  how  all  matters  did  in  the  country  of  the 

south;  'for  you  must  know,'  said  he,  'that  we  are 

travellers,  as  I  see  you  are:  and  seeing  we  are  met 

on  contrary  ways,  it  may  be  we  shall  save  our  steps, 

and  our  beasts'  as  well,  if  each  shall  show  the  other 

what  manner  of  country  it  is  that  he  is  bound  away 

from.  Do  you  begin.'"  — And  so  on.  Thus  the  sons 

of  Adam,  John    Thompson  even   as    Mahalaleel, 

still  are  going  about  the  earth  on  the  old  elementary 

quest,  seeking  a   place    of  habitation.    I   heartily 

wished  them  Godspeed,  and  the  caravan  vanished  in 

a  cloud  of  dust. 

In  the  Nipomo  Valley,  through  which  I  was  now 
passing,  there  are  living  a  number  of  members  of  the 
Dana  family.  At  the  death  of  the  late  head  of  this 
branch  of  the  house  (who  was  a  cousin  of  Richard 
Henry  Dana,  the  writer,  who  has  been  several  times 
referred  to  and  quoted  in  these  pages),  the  Nipomo 
Ranch,  of  over  thirty-seven  thousand  acres  of  land, 
was  divided  among  his  numerous  children.  Using 
the  privilege  of  a  traveller,  I  called  upon  Mr.  John 
Dana,  the  eldest  son,  and  was  received  with  all 
possible  kindness;  American  frankness  and  Spanish 
courtesy  together,  for  his  mother  was  a  Carrillo,  of 
the  best  blood  of  Spanish  California,    ft  was  like  an 


i42         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

echo  from  the  old  days  to  hear  from  his  daughter  how, 
half  a  century  ago,  her  father  would  ride  in  one  day 
the  ninety  miles  to  Santa  Barbara  to  pay  a  call  to 
his  betrothed  in  the  evening.  And  it  was  a  surprise 
to  learn  that  the  lady,  Dona  Carolina,  was  a  niece 
of  that  Captain  Thompson  whom  the  author  of 
"Two  Years  Before  the  Mast"  drew  in  such  effec- 
tive colors. 

I  was  entertained  that  night  at  the  ranch  of 
another  one  of  the  family,  a  mile  farther  up  the 
valley.  It  needed  an  ample  table  to  accommodate 
the  three  generations  of  Danas  with  whom  I  sat  at 
supper;  and  I  wondered,  as  I  listened  to  the  cheerful 
bi-lingual  talk,  and  noted  the  fine  physical  results  of 
the  union  of  the  Saxon  and  Spanish  strains,  whether 
the  race  does  not  suffer  more  than  we  think  by  the 
barriers  which  prejudice  often  raises  against  inter- 
racial marriages. 

My  road  next  morning  was  through  the  rich  grain- 
land  of  the  Nipomo.  Straight  ahead  rose  a  striking 
peak  named  El  Picacho,  and  on  the  east  ran  a  range 
of  odd,  sugar-loaf  hills,  from  which  many  a  bright 
rill  came  romping  down.  Reaching  the  top  of  a  long 
rise  I  could  see  the  flash  of  breakers  five  miles  to  the 
west. 

An  hour  or  two  took  us  into  the  Arroyo  Grande 
Valley,  a  region  famous  especially  for  the  growing 
of  seeds.  On  leaving  the  prosperous  little  town  we 
took  the  road  once  more  toward  the  coast,  which  we 
struck  near  El  Pizmo,  a  newly  exploited  beach  re- 


SAN   LUIS   OBISPO    BAY  143 

sort.  The  place  had  no  attractions  for  me,  but  Chino 
scented  a  stable,  and  gazed  anxiously  toward  the 
town  as  we  passed  it  by  in  the  offing.  Here  ended 
the  long  sweep  of  low,  sandy  shore.  From  this  point 
northward  the  Coast  Range  pushes  its  spurs  sharply 
into  the  waters  of  the  Pacific,  and  the  scenery  con- 
sequently becomes  bolder  and  continuously  attrac- 
tive. 

The  coast  here  trends  west  and  then  south,  to  form 
the  bay  of  San  Luis  Obispo.  To  this  point  come  pipe- 
lines from  the  oil-fields  in  the  interior,  and  from  Port 
Harford,  on  the  west  side  of  the  bay,  cargoes  of  oil 
are  shipped  to  many  ports  on  this  side  of  the  globe. 
At  Oilport  I  saw  a  deserted  refining-plant,  complete 
to  every  accessory,  and  representing  a  huge  outlay. 
Its  owners  had  been  defeated  in  some  bout  of  wits 
with  the  colossi  of  the  industry,  and  there  it  remains, 
silent  and  inactive,  an  example  to  rash  capitalists. 

The  road  now  swinging  inland  to  avoid  a  hill,  I 
found  myself  in  a  pretty,  wooded  canon.  A  short 
distance  along  it  I  came  unexpectedly  to  a  hotel, 
whose  reason  for  being  is  some  medicinal  springs 
near  by.  The  place  was  so  pleasing  in  its  bird-haunted 
seclusion  that  I  took  Chino's  hint,  and  put  up  for 
a  day  or  two  while  I  explored  the  locality. 

On  the  cliff  a  mile  away  a  recent  subsidence  of  the 
land  had  laid  bare  an  ancient  Indian  burying-place. 
The  ground  was  strewn  with  crumbling  yellowed 
bones,  and  though  the  best  of  its  archaeological 
treasures   had   already  been  gathered   up  by  col- 


i44        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

lectors,  it  was  easy  to  unearth  rude  implements  of 
stone  that  had  been  buried  under  many  feet  of 
accumulated  soil.  No  doubt  future  ages  will  similarly 
delve  among  our  own  remains  as  those  of  a  sort  of 
savages. 

Near  by  was  the  dwelling  of  a  Portuguese  fisher- 
man, who  came  over  to  chat,  and  hospitably  invited 
me  to  visit  his  cabin.  I  found  him  full  of  friendly 
talk  and  simplicity.  Seeing  me  notice  a  framed  print 
of  the  Saviour  that  hung  above  his  bed,  with  the 
title,  "0  Bom  Jesus  do  Milagre"  (the  Good  Jesus 
of  the  Miracle)  he  seemed  to  fear  that,  as  a  probable 
Protestant,  I  might  disparage  it.  For  the  defence,  he 
related  the  story  of  a  poor  Portuguese  boy  who,  hav- 
ing once  buried  some  money  for  safety,  was  unable  to 
find  it  when  he  came  back  to  dig  it  up.  In  his  distress 
he  fell  to  prayer,  and  vowed  to  give  half  of  the  sum 
to  the  Church  if  he  were  enabled  to  find  it.  As  he 
resumed  his  digging,  a  Man  came  by  who  asked 
what  he  had  lost,  and  offered  to  help  in  the  search. 
The  lost  money  was  quickly  found,  and  the  Stranger 
went  on  His  way.  The  boy,  true  to  his  word,  was 
proceeding  to  fulfil  his  vow,  when,  on  the  wall  of  the 
church  whither  he  had  gone  to  complete  the  arrange- 
ments, he  saw  a  picture  of  the  Saviour,  the  same, 
in  attitude  and  expression,  as  the  one  I  was  looking 
at.  "That  is  the  Man  who  helped  me  to  find  my 
money!"  he  cried  joyfully.  "We  belief  that,"  said 
my  fisherman  eagerly  ;"we  belief  that.  Peoples  laugh 
at  us;  well;  we  belief  that." 


THE    AVILAS   OF   AVILA  145 

I  assured  him  that  I  saw  nothing  to  laugh  at  in  his 
story ;  as  God  forbid  I  should.  At  this  he  was  greatly 
pleased,  and  shook  me  earnestly  by  the  hand,  saying 
that  I  was  "good  man,  good  man  for  sure":  and 
when,  by  help  of  my  Spanish,  I  was  able  to  decipher 
some  phrases  of  Portuguese  in  a  letter  from  home, 
he  clapped  me  on  the  back  delightedly,  and  declared 
that  I  was  "good  scholar,  all  right;  good  man,  good 
scholar,  good  friend." 

A  mile  farther  along  the  coast,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
San  Luis  Creek,  is  the  little  village  of  Avila,  where 
lived  a  Spaniard  of  the  same  name  who  was  related 
to  some  of  my  friends  in  the  south.  The  Avilas  for- 
merly owned  the  whole  neighboring  grant  of  the 
San  Miguelito,  but  the  inevitable  has  taken  its 
course;  the  property  has  passed  to  the  Gringos,  and 
even  the  fine  old  family  mansion  was  burned  to  the 
ground  a  few  years  ago.  I  found  Don  Juan  living 
with  his  sister  and  his  niece  in  a  little  wooden  build- 
ing on  the  site  of  the  old  house.  He  was  deep  in 
"King  Henry  VI,"  for  Shakespeare  and  Cervantes 
are  his  twin  suns  of  literature.  When  I  presented  my 
letter,  I  must  needs  stay  to  dinner;  he  would  take 
no  denial;  and  then,  as  sounds  of  agitation  came 
from  the  chicken-yard —  "There!  you  see?  Dona 
Josefa  has  killed  a  fowl  for  you,  and  Maria  will  be 
vexed  if  you  do  not  taste  her  colachi." 

Main-  were  the  tales  he  had  to  tell  of  life  and 
manners  in  the  bygone  days:  of  fiestas  and  bailcs 
in  the  old  house,  with  pensive  tribute  to  the  rare 


146        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

wines  and  champagnes  that  used  to  flow  thereat; 
of  the  horses,  then  of  no  more  account  than  rabbits ; 
so  that  if  a  friend,  or  even  a  casual  traveller,  needed 
one,  it  was  but  to  send  the  vaqueros  to  run  a  band 
into  the  corral,  and  then,  —  "Choose  the  one  you 
like:  it  is  yours";  and  of  how  the  Spaniards,  when 
selling  cattle,  would  receive  the  stated  price  as  each 
beast  was  passed  over,  —  one  steer,  one  gold  piece; 
another  steer,  another  gold  piece;  and  so  on.  That 
was  to  save  trouble ;  perhaps  also  to  save  mistakes ; 
for  it  is  matter  of  common  report  how  grossly  they 
were  cheated  by  some  of  the  traders,  who,  knowing 
that  a  Spaniard  would  not  condescend  to  examine 
an  account,  were  unduly  prone  to  little  blunders, 
casting  up  units  as  tens,  and  so  forth. 

When  I  rose  to  go,  I  found  that  a  bed  had  been 
made  ready  for  me,  and  I  must  stay  the  night  or  I 
should  deny  them  the  now  rare  luxury  of  entertain- 
ing a  friend.  I  could  not  refuse  this  kindness,  and 
Shakespeare  and  the  drama  of  California,  with  Don 
Juan's  cigars,  occupied  us  until  long  past  midnight. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Into  the  mountains  —  The  knob-cone  pine  —  A  lost  trail  —  Camp 
on  Diablo  Creek  —  Rough  going  —  A  debate  with  Chino  — 
French  hospitality,  and  Irish  —  The  city  of  San  Luis  Obispo:  the 
Mission:  preposterous  chimes:  lynchings  —  Volcanic  peaks  —  A 
gray  day  —  Italian-Swiss  settlers  —  Blithe  cowboys  —  Morro  — 
Entering  the  Coast  Range  country  —  Cayucos  —  The  town  of 
Cambria  —  Abalone  fishers  —  San  Simeon  —  Piedras  Blancas 
lighthouse  —  Welsh  kindness  —  Indian  relics  —  A  primitive 
school  —  Irish  hospitality  again. 

A  few  miles  to  the  northeast  of  the  San  Luis  Hot 
Springs  is  the  city  of  San  Luis  Obispo,  with 
another  of  the  Franciscan  Missions.  My  contour 
map  showed  an  interesting  looking  piece  of  rough 
country  lying  near  the  coast,  which  would  be  missed 
if  I  took  the  direct  road.  I  therefore  determined  to 
find  a  way  over  the  mountains,  and  made  a  start 
northward  up  a  canon  charming  with  ferns  and 
wild  flowers  and  profitable  with  blackberries.  A 
gay  little  brook  trotted  beside  the  road,  and  when 
outposts  of  the  pines  appeared  on  the  higher  ridges, 
I  congratulated  myself  on  my  choice. 

We  passed  many  small  farms,  but  nearly  all  were 
abandoned,  owing.  I  fancy,  to  the  repeated  washing- 
out  of  the  road  in  winter  storms.  Near  the  head  of 
the  canon  I  found  the  owner  of  a  ranch  working  at 
the  road  to  render  it  passable  for  a  wagon,  in  hope 
of  making  his  farm  salable.    His  family  and  furniture 


148        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

had  been  moved  away,  he  said,  but  he  should  be  glad 
of  my  company  for  the  night  at  the  house  if  I  chose 
to  stay.  This  I  was  glad  to  do,  and  enjoyed  his  sim- 
ple talk  of  his  losses,  his  children,  and  his  plans. 
Somehow,  such  confidences  often  come  nearer  to  the 
heart  than  a  valuable  kindness. 

Next  morning  I  started  early  on  my  climb.  The 
dilapidated  road  went  no  farther,  but  my  friend 
pointed  out  a  trail  that  led  in  the  right  direction.  It 
struck  at  once  up  the  mountain-side,  which  here 
bore  a  thin  forest  of  the  interesting  knob-cone  pine 
(Pinus  tuberculata) .  The  region  had  been  burned 
over  some  few  years  before,  with  the  result  that  most 
of  the  old  trees  were  dead,  but  around  them  flourish- 
ing squads  of  pinelings  were  growing.  These  were 
already  bearing  cones,  as  if  Nature  had  hurried  to 
forestall  another  fire,  which,  if  it  had  come  before 
the  young  trees  bore  their  fruit,  would  have  ended 
the  succession :  for  the  species  is  peculiar  in  holding 
its  cones  unopened  until  fire  destroys  the  tree,  when 
the  seeds  are  liberated  by  the  heat  that  kills  the 
parent.  They  seemed  a  vivid  illustration  of  St. 
Paul's  eloquent  argument  for  the  resurrection. 

The  trail  had  gradually  become  fainter,  until,  near 
the  summit  of  the  first  ridge,  it  wavered  off  into 
uncertainty  and  finally  ran  out.  I  tied  Chino  and 
beat  about  for  half  an  hour  hoping  to  pick  it  up,  but 
the  depopulation  of  the  canon  below  had  put  the 
trail  into  disuse,  and  the  industrious  brush  had 
quickly  claimed  its  own. 


A    LOST    TRAIL  149 

To  south  and  west  I  got  glimpses  of  the  ocean  at  a 
few  miles'  distance,  and  on  the  other  hand  ran  a 
maze  of  mountains  and  canons,  far  too  steep  and  too 
heavily  brushed  to  allow  of  our  making  across  coun- 
try. Leading  Chino  carefully  along  a  sharp  slope  I 
gained  a  connecting  ridge  that  was  sufficiently  open 
on  its  summit  for  travel.  It  bore  west,  whereas  I 
wished  to  go  north,  but  I  went  on  in  hope  of  either 
striking  a  trail  or  finding  more  open  country  by 
which  to  drop  to  Coon  Creek  Canon,  where  I  knew 
there  was  a  road. 

Coming  at  length  to  the  end  of  the  ridge,  I  found 
that  it  fell  away  steeply.  In  the  deep  canon  that 
opened  below  me  I  saw  a  tiny  cabin  and  traces  of 
cultivation.  It  was  getting  towards  evening,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  back  or  to  get 
down  to  the  canon,  where  there  would  probably  be  a 
trail,  and  almo>t  certainly  water.  So,  leading  Chino 
carefully  by  the  bridle,  we  began  the  descent.  It 
was  a  difficult  piece  of  work,  and  not  entirely  with- 
out danger.  Had  I  been  alone  it  would  have  been 
merely  to  fight  my  way  through  stiff  brush  down  a 
steep  hillside;  but  Chino  with  his  encumbrances  was 
in  constant  danger  of  losing  hi-  footing  on  tin-  sharp 
uneven  slope,  or  getting  snagged  >>n  ><>mr  rock  or 
stubborn  elbow  of  greasewood  <>r  buckthorn.  But 
the  good  horse  behaved  well,  responding  instantly 
to  my  voice  and  guidance,  and  by  sundown  \\' 
safely  down  to  the  canon. 

As  I  expected,  I  found  a  good  stream,  and  follow- 


i5o        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

ing  it  down  we  soon  came  upon  a  faint  trail,  which 
led  to  the  cabin  I  had  seen  from  above.  It  was  de- 
serted and  had  fallen  into  the  quick  decay  that  over- 
takes man's  abandoned  outposts  in  the  wilderness. 
A  row  of  cypresses,  a  few  starving  vines,  figs,  and 
apples,  and  a  straggling  rose-bush  seemed  to  show 
that  a  family,  and  not  some  solitary  settler,  had 
here  suffered  defeat.  It  was  far  from  being  a  cheer- 
ful spot,  but  it  served  our  purpose  well  enough.  I 
found  good  pasturage  for  Chino  on  a  little  ciSnaga, 
or  marshy  spot,  beyond  the  creek ;  and  supper  and  a 
rousing  pine- wood  fire  soon  put  me  in  happy  mood. 
I  spread  my  blankets  among  the  old  trees  of  the  or- 
chard, and  lay  blinking  at  the  darkening  Ambers 
until  the  final  blink  came  that  was  prolonged  until 
morning. 

We  were  early  on  the  march,  or,  to  speak  literally, 
on  the  scramble.  I  had  figured  out  my  whereabouts 
as  closely  as  I  could  by  map  and  compass,  and  de- 
cided that  I  must  be  on  Diablo  Creek,  the  stream 
next  south  of  Coon  Creek,  which  I  must  somehow 
reach  before  I  should  find  a  road.  I  prospected  up 
the  first  one  or  two  canons,  only  to  find  that  they 
soon  changed  their  direction.  Then  came  one  that 
seemed  more  hopeful,  and  though  it  was  full  of 
broken  rock  and  boulders,  and  hard  on  Chino's  feet, 
I  determined  to  try  it.  As  I  was  leading  him  care- 
fully among  the  rocks  I  stepped  close  beside  a  rattle- 
snake that  lay  coiled  among  them.  We  had  a  lively 
engagement  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  as  I  was  not 


A    DEBATE    WITH    CHINO  151 

wearing  my  revolver  and  he  was  too  discreet  to  come 
into  the  open,  I  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  him 
slip  into  a  cranny  where  neither  shot,  stick,  nor  stone 
could  reach  him.  I  always  feel  unhappy  when  I  fail 
to  kill  one  of  these  detestable  creatures. 

We  made  slow  headway  up  the  canon,  which  soon 
degenerated  to  a  gully.  It  grew  very  hot,  for  in  this 
narrow  place  no  breeze  could  reach  us,  and  the  rocks 
reflected  the  heat  like  firebrick.  Once  or  twice  it 
seemed  impossible  to  go  on,  for  Chino  was  slipping 
about  every  moment,  and  I  was  afraid  he  would  fall 
and  come  to  harm.  But  the  gully  continued  in  the 
right  direction,  and  I  hate  turning  back.  During 
pauses  tor  rest  I  would  sit  on  a  rock  to  study  the  map 
while  Chino  looked  on  over  my  shoulder.  Then  we 
would  discuss  the  situation  somewhat  thus  (I  inter- 
pret my  horse's  part  by  his  demeanor,  which  was  al- 
most intelligent  enough  to  amount  to  conversation) : 

Chino.  "Hang  it!  this  can't  be  the  trail,  you 
know." 

/.  "Why,  no,  it's  not  exactly  a  trail,  Chino,  but 
it  heads  the  right  way.    Besides,  the  map — " 

Chino.  "Confound  the  map!    I  don't  believe — " 

I.  "Uncle  Sam's  map,  Chino,  your  uncle  and 
mine.    It  must  be  right,  you  know." 

Chino.   "Well,  but—" 

/.  "It  can't  be  much  farther  to  the  head  of  the 
canon,  anyhow,  and  then — " 

Chino.   "Well,  but  look — " 

/  {getting  up).    "Now,  look  here,  my  boy,  we  are 


152        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS' 

going  on  up,  so  that's  all  about  it:  at  least,  I  am: 
you  may  stay  where  you  are,  if  you  like." 

Chino  (aside).  "That'll  never  do:  he  pays  the 
stable  bills  in  town  fairly  enough."  (Sighs  heavily.) 
"Well,  then,  all  right:  we'll  take  another  shot  at  it. 
Come  on,  Governor." 

In  this  manner  we  toiled  along  for  perhaps  two 
hours,  and  at  length  stumbled  out  from  the  canon 
upon  a  flat  where,  under  a  big  oak,  were  the  traces 
of  an  old  camp,  probably  of  cattle-men.  On  the  hill- 
side opposite  I  saw  to  my  relief  faint  but  unmistak- 
able signs  of  a  trail.  After  an  hour's  rest  we  made 
for  it,  and  followed  it  down  long  zigzags,  here  over- 
grown with  brush  and  there  washed  out  by  rains, 
until  we  emerged  in  a  green  valley  which  I  knew 
must  be  Coon  Creek  Canon. 

In  a  little  shanty  from  which  smoke  was  rising  I 
found  an  old  Frenchman  woodcutter,  sorting  herbs 
into  bundles.  His  first  word  was  the  usual  hos- 
pitable one,  "Are  you  hungry?  I'll  get  you  some 
dinner."  I  was  glad  to  take  a  cup  of  the  coffee  which 
was  still  hot  on  the  stove ;  and  then,  learning  that 
the  road  was  close  by,  I  struck  into  it.  A  comfort- 
able ranch-house  stood  at  the  junction,  and  seeing  a 
man  romping  with  a  child  by  the  open  door  I  went 
over  to  speak  to  him.  When  I  had  made  sure  of  my 
whereabouts  and  explained  my  presence  in  that  out- 
of-the-way  spot,  the  question  again  was,  "  Have  you 
had  dinner?  Well,  come  in;  we  are  just  sitting 
down." 


SAN   LUIS   OBISPO  153 

The  family  consisted  of  the  handsome  old  man  I 
had  spoken  to,  a  stalwart  son  and  daughter-in-law, 
and  two  chubby,  blue-eyed  children.  I  was  made  to 
feel  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  were  a  member  of  it  my- 
self. It  proved  that  they  were  Irish,  so  I  might  add 
another  nationality  to  the  list  of  those  from  whom 
I  had  received  a  traveller's  aid  and  comfort.  Like 
the  apostle,  I  felt  myself  "debtor  both  to  the  Greeks 
and  to  the  Barbarians." 

San  Luis  Obispo  was  still  eight  or  ten  miles  away, 
and  after  the  morning's  work  we  travelled  slowly. 
I  walked,  leading  my  tired  horse,  and  enjoying  a  sun- 
set view  out  over  the  wide  Los  Osos  Valley  below 
me.  A  lake  of  milky  cloud  filled  all  the  valley,  ex- 
tending westward  to  the  coast  and  far  out  to  sea. 
Above  it  stood  up,  black  and  ragged,  the  summits 
of  a  row  of  volcanic  peaks  which  give  a  unique  char- 
acter to  this  locality.  Beyond  lay  the  main  range  of 
the  Santa  Lucia,  now  near  at  hand,  softly  opalescent 
in  evening  light.  About  sundown  we  arrived  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  and  I  furnished  diversion  for 
the  young  fry  of  the  place  as  I  hauled  my  tired 
steed  along,  almost  by  main  force,  to  his  quarters. 

My  own  were  close  to  the  Mission,  and  at  inter- 
vals of  each  day  of  the  two  or  three  I  stayed  here,  I 
watched  from  my  window  the  black-shawled  women 
hurrying  to  service.  Once  before,  when  I  was  in  the 
town,  I  had  wandered  intotheold  building,  and,  find- 
ing service  in  progress,  had  felt  it  good  to  kneel  with 
the  half-dozen  Mexican  peons  who  shared  the  back 


154        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

seats  with  me.  Somehow,  the  ties  of  a  common  hu- 
manity (and,  I  hope,  a  common  humility  also)  seem 
to  me  of  more  account  than  the  differences,  momen- 
tous as  I  hold  them  to  be,  between  Rome  and  Can- 
terbury. And  when  I  watched  these  humble,  black- 
shawled,  rather  sad-faced  women  going  to  their 
devotions,  something  brought  to  my  mind  the  car- 
penter's wife  of  Nazareth,  and  a  phrase  or  two  of 
that  sweetest  lyric  of  Holy  Writ — "the  lowliness  of 
His  handmaiden  .  .  .  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 

The  Mission  itself,  founded  in  1772,  is  not  spe- 
cially attractive,  but  contains  some  interesting  mat- 
ters. By  the  kindness  of  the  priest  I  got  entrance 
into  the  old  garden,  a  quiet  square  of  old-time  flow- 
ers and  arbored  walks.  The  Father  told  me  that  the 
Tularefios,  or  Indians  of  the  interior  valley,  who 
come  periodically  to  the  coast  to  gather  shell-fish, 
still  make  their  camp  as  of  right  in  the  Mission 
grounds.  I  was  glad  to  hear  that  in  the  eyes  of  his 
church,  at  least,  the  Indian  yet  has  some  trifling 
rights  beside  his  pauper's  dole. 

I  was  at  first  staggered  and  then  much  amused  by 
the  bells  of  the  Mission  as  they  called  worshippers  to 
the  services.  Imagine  being  awakened  from  normal 
slumbers  by  this  preposterous  ditty,  rung,  in  a  sort 
of  jig- time,  on  bells  not  remarkable  for  sweetness  of 
tone  — 

Vivace.  >  >  > 


m^^^^&H 


HE 


PREPOSTEROUS    CHIMES  155 

—  repeated  four  times,  and  ending  with  three  explo- 
sions fortissimo  — 


m 


*-    # 


This,  it  appears,  is  San  Luis's  traditional  exhorta- 
tion to  his  parishioners.  Performed,  as  it  was,  in 
quick  time  and  with  a  sort  of  idiotic  excitement,  it 
resembled  the  antics  of  marionettes,  and  I  could 
never  hear  it  without  a  burst  of  laughter. 

A  walk  about  the  town,  which  is  an  old  one,  by 
Western  reckoning,  and  contains  some  six  thousand 
people,  yielded  a  few  attractive  items.  There  is  quite 
an  air  of  old  California  remaining  in  the  nooks  and 
corners.  Near  the  centre  of  the  town  stands  what 
was  one  of  the  best  of  the  old  adobe  houses,  now 
fallen  to  the  uses  of  a  Chinese  laundry.  Near  by  are 
a  few  fine  olive  and  pear  trees ;  and  half  hidden  here 
and  there  among  the  stores  are  tall  date-palms  and 
ancient  prickly-pears  that  mark  the  gardens  of  the 
old  pueblo. 

The  surrounding  region  has  been  the  scene  of  la- 
bor of  some  notable  bandits,  and  more  than  once  it 
fell  to  the  citizens  of  San  Luis,  as  to  those  of  many 
other  Western  towns,  to  take  the  execution  of  the 
laws  into  their  own  hands.  In  one  year,  I  was  told, 
no  less  than  eleven  malefactors,  or  supposed  male- 
factors, were  here  summarily  hanged;  and  a  lady 
with  whom  I  talked  described  how,  on  one  occasion, 


i56        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

she  herself,  a  girl  at  the  time,  looking  casually  from 
her  veranda,  had  seen  three  bodies  swinging  in  a 
row  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 

On  leaving  San  Luis  Obispo  I  took  a  northwesterly 
road  that  led  toward  the  coast.  A  sprinkle  of  rain  was 
falling,  but  those  little  crossbowmen  of  God,  the 
swallows,  wheeling  happily  about  in  the  upper  air, 
prophesied  fair  weather,  though  the  heads  of  the 
rank  of  peaks  that  rose  close  by  to  the  south  were 
veiled  in  rolling  mists.  Both  in  color  and  outline  these 
mountains  are  very  conspicuous.  Each  peak  stands 
out  isolated,  statuesque,  and  finely  unconventional. 
Broad  cloudings  of  lichen,  in  gray,  ashy  green,  and 
purple,  variegate  the  ragged  blackness  of  their  con- 
tours. Under  that  sombre  sky  they  had  a  strange 
and  antediluvian  look.  As  I  came  near  the  third 
in  order,  called  Cerro  Romualdo,  it  showed  through 
the  eddying  cloud  as  a  black  volcanic  cone ;  and  to 
heighten  its  eerie  appearance  a  company  of  buzzards 
were  perched  in  the  gaunt  sycamores  at  its  base,  as 
grim  as  Odin's  ravens. 

On  the  other  hand  lay  the  Santa  Lucias,  a  long 
wall  of  fawn  and  black,  belted  at  half  its  height  with 
a  level  stratum  of  vapor.  The  valley  had  fully 
taken  its  summer  hue  of  brown,  but  the  foreground 
was  tinged  with  the  gold  of  dry  wild-oats.  A  few 
gray  farms  nestled  among  gray  rocks  on  the  gray 
mountain-side;  a  colorless  stream  rattled  over  a 
stony  gray  bed ;  gray  moss  trailed  from  the  roadside 
oaks ;  and  the  sky  was  of  that  great,  elemental  gray 


ITALIAN-SWISS   SETTLERS  157 

that  stirs  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  one  as  sea-spray  would 
rouse  a  Viking.  In  California  I  never  get  enough  of 
this  finest  of  colors,  and  here  I  set  my  teeth  for  very 
joy.  Even  Chino  felt  the  stimulus,  tossed  his  head, 
pricked  his  ears,  and  broke  voluntarily  into  a  canter. 

From  here  northward  for  some  hundreds  of  miles 
the  principal  industry  of  the  coast  region  is  dairying, 
and  the  people  engaged  in  it  are  mainly  Italian- 
Swiss.  It  was  a  surprise  to  me,  and  a  rather  unwel- 
come one,  to  find  in  what  numbers  these  hardy  and 
industrious  folk  have  settled  here:  unwelcome,  not 
from  any  dislike  I  have  for  the  race,  but  because  my 
intercourse  with  them  has  given  me  the  impression 
that,  of  all  the  various  racial  ingredients,  the  Ital- 
ian will  prove  to  be  the  most  difficult  to  blend. 

While  I  was  lingering  near  the  remains  of  an  old 
orchard,  to  give  Chino  a  chance  to  graze,  a  cloud  of 
dust  and  a  hilarious  whooping  told  the  approach  of 
a  "bunch"  of  cattle.  They  were  convoyed  by  five 
cowboys  in  sombreros  and  "chaps,"  who  stopped  to 
fraternize  with  a  brother  horseman.  They  had  been 
four  days  on  their  way  down  from  the  San  Luis 
ranges,  and  were  loud  in  envy  when  they  learned 
that  I  was  two  months  out  and  still  had  more 
than  half  my  journey  before  me.  Two  of  them  at 
once  offered  to  "trade  jobs"  with  me,  without 
even  waiting  to  hear  the  nature  of  my  own  business. 
When  they  understood  this  they  were  urgent  to  ac- 
company me,  and  thought  they  might  be  useful  in 
"working  the  picture-box"  or  even  "doing  the  po- 


1/ 


158        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

etry  stunts. "  But,  finding  that  their  beef  was  spread- 
ing over  too  wide  a  territory  while  we  talked,  they 
suddenly  jerked  their  ponies  round  and  with  blithe 
shouts  of  "  Adios!"  jingled  away  in  a  whirlwind  of 
dust. 

Evening  was  falling  as  we  came  to  the  coast  at  the 
village  of  Morro.  The  sun  broke  for  a  moment 
through  the  clouds  in  a  sudden  magnificence  of 
crimson,  painting  a  gorgeous  belt  along  the  horizon 
and  empurpling  the  great  plain  of  ocean,  though  all 
about  me  was  still  that  nobler  gray. 

Morro 's  population  sat  at  ease  on  doorsteps  and 
packing-boxes,  watching  a  game  of  horseshoe  quoits. 
The  stable-man  was  with  difficulty  detached  to  at- 
tend on  Chino,  and  I  made  a  meal  at  a  primitive 
restaurant  while  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  place 
performed  on  an  adjoining  rink  to  the  strains  of  a 
phonograph. 

This  pretty  place  is  destined,  I  think,  to  be  of 
more  note  than  it  is  now.  It  lies  at  the  northern 
point  of  a  beautiful  bay,  three  or  four  miles  in  length 
and  all  but  landlocked.  The  sporting  attractions 
are  of  the  best,  the  landward  scenery  very  interest- 
ing, and  the  great  rock,  El  Morro,  which  stands  at 
the  bay's  mouth,  gives  nucleus  and  distinction  to  the 
whole. 

On  leaving  Morro  I  found  myself  definitely  enter- 
ing that  little-known  stretch  of  mountain  country 
which  borders  the  Pacific  closely  for  a  distance  of 
about  a  hundred  miles.    For  most  of  that  distance 


THE   COAST   RANGE   COUNTRY     159 

there  are  no  roads  and  few  settlers,  while  the  trails 
are  rough,  steep,  and  often  so  little  travelled  as  to  be 
difficult  to  follow.  Further,  no  maps  of  the  region 
were  to  be  had.  Many  persons  had  told  me  that  I 
should  never  get  through  without  a  guide;  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that,  since  water  must  be  plentiful  and 
I  could  carry  food  enough  for  many  days,  there 
would  be  no  particular  hardship  in  the  matter  even 
if  I  should  get  lost. 

My  only  fears  were  on  Chino's  account.  The  long 
trip  had  worn  him  down,  easily  as  we  had  travelled, 
and  with  all  my  care  the  saddle  had  rubbed  sores  on 
the  withers  which  might  render  him  unfit  for  use; 
while  the  question  of  feed  would  be  a  troublesome 
one,  for  the  wild  forage  was  by  now  almost  gone,  and 
I  could  not  rely  upon  buying  fodder  from  the  scat- 
tered settlers.  However,  I  could  not  afford  to  miss 
this  fine  piece  of  coast ;  so  I  resolved  to  go  on,  taking 
what  chances  there  might  be,  and  offsetting  them  as 
far  as  possible  by  special  care.  I  had  got  some  gen- 
eral idea  of  the  trails  from  people  at  San  Luis,  and 
had  no  doubt  we  should  get  through. 

The  regulation  sea-fog  lay  thick  upon  the  coast  as 
we  started  northward.  To  seaward  the  great  rock 
loomed  uncertainly,  and  the  cries  of  unseen  gulls 
came  weirdly  through  the  mist.  Occasionally  a 
field  of  beans  would  be  seen  near  some  farmhouse 
occupied  by  Swiss,  with  all  hands  diligently  hoeing, 
not  only  men  and  boys,  but  women.  I  suppose  to 
some  people  this  would  seem  shocking,  but  I  own 


160         CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

that  it  had  a  wholesome,  primitive  look  to  me,  and  I 
could  not  see  that  civilization,  or  even  "culture," 
needed  to  quarrel  with  it.  The  houses  were  gener- 
ally rough,  too,  but  they  had  an  air  of  country  com- 
fort, and  there  were  plenty  of  trees  about  them. 
Here  again  I  may  be  retrograde,  but  I  sometimes 
wonder  whether  the  elegance  of  our  days  is  not  in 
some  insidious  way  a  foe  to  true  home-making ;  and 
whether  the  modern  American  home,  with  its  perfec- 
tion of  artistic  and  hygienic  accessories,  is  quite  the 
equal  in  value,  as  regards  the  Family  Idea,  of  those 
simpler  conceptions  which  our  immigrants  bring 
with  them,  though  they  seldom  persist  in  the  first 
generation  American  born. 

The  road  kept  near  the  shore,  and  as  the  fog 
slowly  lifted  I  now  and  then  caught  glimpses  of 
the  Santa  Lucias,  now  a  soft  mystery  of  blue  shaded 
with  milky  skeins  of  mist.  Eight  miles,  and  we  came 
to  Cayucos,  a  one-street  village  lying  in  the  bend  of 
a  rocky  bay.  While  Chino  lunched  at  the  livery- 
stable  I  found  a  quaint  little  restaurant  whose  Portu- 
guese proprietor,  on  the  mention  of  my  meeting 
with  his  countrymen  at  Point  Conception,  shook  my 
hand  as  earnestly  as  though  I  had  done  him  a  high 
favor,  and  would  hardly  be  persuaded  to  take  pay- 
ment for  my  meal. 

A  few  miles  farther,  near  Point  Estero,  the  road 
turned  somewhat  inland.  It  was  again  a  delight  to 
find  myself  among  pines,  this  time  of  the  radiata 
species,  whose  southern  limit  of  natural  growth  is 


THE   TOWN    OF   CAMBRIA  161 

this  region.  The  tree  is  one  of  the  handsomest  of 
the  pines,  especially  notable  for  the  full,  dark  bril- 
liance of  its  foliage.  In  its  manner  of  growth,  and 
with  that  background  of  gray  and  silver  sky,  I  was 
strongly  reminded  of  the  Scotch  fir  of  my  native 
land. 

From  the  top  of  a  long,  steep  ascent,  I  looked  down 
upon  the  compact  little  town  of  Cambria,  lying  pine- 
encircled  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills.  I  have  seldom  seen 
a  place  more  happily  situated.  A  fine  trouty  stream, 
the  Santa  Rosa  Creek,  flows  in  a  wooded  canon  past 
the  town,  mingling  its  jaunty  voice  with  the  roar  of 
the  ocean,  near  at  hand,  though  unseen.  In  the  gar- 
dens, palms  compete  with  wonderful  fuchsias  and 
sensational  rose-bushes  of  tree-like  size.  From  its 
name,  and  the  fact  that  its  mainstay  is  mining  (prin- 
cipally for  quicksilver),  I  expected  to  find  the  place 
Welsh ;  and,  indeed,  it  has  much  the  physical  air  of  a 
rain-washed  Welsh  town.  I  found,  however,  that,  as 
with  all  the  region,  the  preponderating  flavor  is  Swiss. 

I  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  comfortable  hotel, 
and  next  morning  we  took  our  way  again  through 
the  fragrant  pine  woods.  On  the  top  of  the  hill 
was  a  little  cemetery,  lying  between  sea  and  pines 
and  hushed  by  the  voices  of  both.  A  bright,  strong 
wind  was  blowing  on  this  upland ;  on  one  hand  spread 
a  brilliant  green  and  purple  sea,  with  the  eternal  fog- 
bank  lying  in  wait  in  the  offing;  on  the  other  rose 
the  mountains,  with  great  pines  etched  finely  on  the 
sky-line. 


162         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

Where  we  came  down  to  the  shore  a  camp  of 
Japanese  abalone  fishers  had  established  themselves. 
Huge  cauldrons  were  boiling  on  the  beach,  and  a  wide 
space  near  by  was  covered  with  the  drying-racks. 
Here,  as  at  several  other  places,  I  found  the  men 
equipped  with  power-launches  and  modern  diving- 
dresses.  The  camps  were  always  neat  and  systema- 
tic, and  everything  complied  with  the  national  char- 
acteristic of  thoroughness. 

The  coast  now  curved  to  the  pretty  bay  of  San 
Simeon,  fringed  with  islets  of  rock  round  which  the 
sea  coiled  in  dazzling  whiteness  of  spray.  Along  the 
cliff  large  sea-asters  grew  thickly,  with  lavender 
lupines,  yellow  tar-weed,  and  eschscholtzias  of  that 
splendid  deep  orange  that  suggests  the  Arabian 
Nights,  or  the  court  of  Ahasuerus;  like  sunshine 
filtered  through  silken  curtains  of  crimson  and  gold. 
Inland,  gray  farms  lay  in  bends  and  hollows  of  the 
mountains;  wind-shorn  oaks  and  laurels  filled  the 
narrower  canons;  and  whenever  the  road  swung  in 
to  round  the  head  of  one  of  these,  I  found  myself 
suddenly  in  a  different  world,  among  wild  roses, 
ferns,  blackberries,  and  phenomenal  thickets  of 
coarse  flowering  weeds. 

We  loitered  along  so  easily  among  these  various 
attractions  that  it  was  near  evening  before  we  came 
to  the  village  of  San  Simeon.  This  once  promising 
little  port  has  dwindled  under  the  caprices  of  For- 
tune and  local  landowners  until  now  only  one  small 
coasting  steamer  calls  unpunctually  at  its  wharf.    I 


PIEDRAS   BLANCAS    LIGHTHOUSE    163 

found  myself  the  only  guest  in  a  hotel  that  would 
have  housed  double  the  whole  population,  with  room 
to  spare.  But  my  host  (an  old  Maine  seaman,  and 
for  twenty  years  in  the  lighthouse  service  on  this 
coast)  and  his  good  Welsh  wife  made  amends  by 
their  friendliness  for  the  physical  drawbacks  of  the 
place. 

I  rode  out  next  day  to  visit  the  lighthouse  at  Pie- 
dras  Blancas,  six  miles  up  the  coast.  A  rattling 
breeze  blew  from  the  sea,  and  Chino,  appreciating 
the  freedom  from  saddle-bags  and  blanket-roll,  let 
himself  out  at  his  best.  On  the  way  we  passed  the 
Piedras  Blancas  Ranch-House.  I  found  this  once 
fine  old  mansion  deserted  and  falling  to  ruin.  Two 
ancient  cypresses  leaned  mournfully  against  the 
veranda,  and  seemed  as  though  they  were  weeping; 
the  crazy  steps  rocked  under  my  feet;  and  some 
pigeons  took  flight  through  a  broken  window.  The 
place  looked  like  some  faithful  old  retainer,  left 
decrepit  and  pitiful  by  the  death  of  his  master. 

The  lighthouse  is  a  high  white  tower,  handsomer 
than  most  of  those  on  this  coast.  I  found  there,  be- 
sides the  keepers,  a  lot  of  frank-eyed,  frolicking 
children  whom  from  their  dress  I  took  to  be  all  boys 
until  by  chance  I  found  it  was  otherwise.  The  spot 
is  a  lonely  one,  but  there  seems  to  be  something  in 
the  nature  of  the  lighthouse  service,  some  spiritual 
ingredient,  that  keeps  its  people  hearty  and  whole- 
some. 

At  Cambria  I  had  met  a  young  Welshman,  owner 


164        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

of  a  large  ranch  in  the  mountains,  and  whose  father 
had  a  dairy-ranch  near  Piedras  Blancas.  I  called 
on  these  good  people  on  leaving  San  Simeon,  and 
stayed  a  day  or  two  with  them,  enjoying  the  cheer- 
fulness of  family  life  in  three  generations  and  the 
Old-World  simplicity  of  manners.  No  doubt  a 
travelling  Turk  or  Zulu  would  be  welcomed  in  that 
house  of  kindness,  but  I  could  see  that  the  old  gentle- 
man's heart  warmed  toward  me  when  I  was  able 
to  give  him  "  Boreu  da  i  chwi "  (good-morning)  for  a 
breakfast-table  greeting. 

This  region  must  once  have  had  a  considerable 
population  of  Indians,  though  now  it  contains  fewer 
than  any  other  part  of  California.  My  host's  vege- 
table garden  was  quite  a  museum  of  their  relics.  The 
stone  morteros,  or  grinding-bowls,  came  in  handily 
as  sockets  for  gate-posts,  and  among  the  baby's  toys 
was  one  of  these  in  miniature,  which  probably  had 
been  fashioned  by  some  aboriginal  parent  as  a  play- 
thing for  his  little  girl,  —  perhaps  an  item  in  a  doll's 
set. 

One  of  the  sons,  having  business  with  a  neighbor 
a  few  miles  up  the  coast,  accompanied  me  when  I 
again  started  on  my  way.  I  was  respectfully  amused 
at  the  primitive  appointments  of  the  Piedras  Blan- 
cas school,  which  we  passed,  and  which  seemed  to 
illustrate  Pallas  in  all  her  chaste  severity.  The  school- 
house  was  a  tent  of  ten  by  twelve  feet,  and  the  furni- 
ture consisted  of  three  small  tables,  evidently  of 
kitchen  antecedents,  two  plank  benches,  a  chair  and 


IRISH    HOSPITALITY  165 

desk  for  the  teacher,  a  nail-keg  for  an  emergency 
scholar,  a  demijohn  for  water,  with  a  tin  cup,  a 
square  yard  of  blackboard,  and  a  handful  of  books, 
apparently  fourth-hand.  It  was  vacation  season, 
and  a  trio  of  cows  sniffed  at  the  crannies  in  hope  of 
scenting  hay.  The  only  sound  beside  the  cry  of 
plovers  was  the  sober  voice  of  that  wise  old  teacher, 
the  sea,  thirty  yards  away :  and  I  wondered  whether 
it  might  not  be  instilling  into  those  children  of  the 
lighthouse,  who  come  here  for  their  simple  school- 
ing, some  fine  lesson  of  reverence  and  wonder  that 
may  one  day  blossom  into  poetry  or  art. 

My  companion's  destination  was  a  dairy-ranch 
kept  by  two  jolly  young  bachelor  Irishmen.  One  or 
two  neighbors  happening  in,  we  made  a  cosmopolitan 
dinner-party,  six  nationalities  among  seven  people. 
Gaiety  and  friendliness  abounded  equally  with 
beans  and  home-cured  bacon.  Again  there  was  no 
withstanding  the  hospitable  pressure  to  stay  for  the 
night.  I  shared  my  hosts'  room,  with  the  result  that 
we  talked  so  late  that  we  had  hardly  got  to  sleep 
when  we  were  awakened  by  the  cries  of  the  vaqueros 
as  they  brought  the  cattle  into  the  corrals  for  the 
morning  milking. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

San  Carpoforo  Canon  —  Oddities  of  pronunciation  —  More  kind 
Mexicans  —  A  mountain  home  —  The  Pear  Orchard  —  A  resting 
spell  —  The  Santa  Lucia  fir  —  Duality  of  climate  —  Physical 
and  pictorial  aspects  of  the  region  —  A  hot  climb  —  Crossing  the 
crest  —  More  great  oaks  —  Camp  on  the  Nacimiento  River  —  A 
delightful  swim  —  Sunday  in  camp  —  The  trail  lost  —  Intelli- 
gence of  Chino  —  The  San  Antonio  River  —  The  village  of 
Jolon:  Indian  music:  my  classification. 

The  fog,  which  had  hardly  lifted  for  two  days 
past,  lay  denser  than  ever  over  the  coast  when, 
about  mid-morning,  I  rode  away  along  the  cliffs. 
I  caught  momentary  glimpses  of  black,  fang-like 
rocks  among  which  the  sea  hissed  and  spouted  in 
incessant  uproar.  From  the  cliff-edge  the  ground 
rose  to  a  high,  undulating  horizon  uncertainly  seen 
between  the  wreaths  of  the  fog.  The  country  was 
treeless:  only  low-growing  brambles,  thistles,  and 
bracken  sprinkled  the  ground,  and  mingled  their 
faint  wet  odor  with  the  strong  smell  of  the  sea.  All 
concurred  to  bring  up  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the 
downs  and  moorlands  of  England;  and  I  half  fan- 
cied I  heard  again  the  seraphic  voice  of  the  skylark, 
showering  down  impassioned  joy  from  the  firma- 
ment of  gray. 

Gradually  there  grew  up  before  me  the  high  wall 
of  the  San  Carp6foro  Canon,  and  a  couple  of  miles 


MORE   KIND   MEXICANS  167 

brought  me  to  its  edge.  (This  name  suffers  many 
variations.  I  have  read  it  "San  Carpoco,"  "San 
Carpojo,"  "Zanjapoco,"  and  "Zanjapojo,"  while 
in  speech  the  changes  are  rung  on  "  Sankypoko  "  and 
"Sankypoky."  It  is  not  surprising  that  this  modest 
saint  should  prove  troublesome  to  laymen ;  and  I  had 
lately  met  with  greater  oddities  of  pronunciation  at 
San  Simeon,  where  I  heard  Piedras  Blancas  seriously 
referred  to  as  "Peter's  Blankets,"  and  Arroyo 
Cruz,  the  name  of  a  neighboring  canon,  as  "A 
Royal  Cruise.") 

The  San  Carp6foro  is  deep,  with  a  sandy  bar  and 
a  roaring  surf  at  its  mouth.  I  took  the  trail  up  the 
canon,  where  a  small  stream  wandered  in  a  waste 
of  brush  and  boulders ;  and  after  passing  one  or  two 
deserted  cabins  came  at  midday  to  a  thrifty  little 
Mexican  farm,  gay  with  flowers  and  children.  There 
was  a  smell  of  cooking  in  the  air,  and  I  inquired 
whether  they  could  get  me  dinner.  It  was  willingly 
done,  and  the  meal  was  doubly  enjoyable  for  the 
tokens  of  happiness  and  affection  that  abounded 
among  them.  When  I  asked  what  I  owed  for  my 
entertainment  —  "Nothing,  senor,"  said  the  good 
woman;  "it  was  but  a  poor  dinner;  —  that  is  worth 
nothing";  and  when  I  left,  it  was  with  a  chorus  of 
"  Buena  fortana!" 

To  keep  the  main  coast  trail  I  should  have  crossed 
the  canon  at  its  mouth  and  continued  directly  north- 
ward. I  had  two  reasons,  however,  for  wishing  to 
make  a  divergence:  one  was,  to  visit  the  Mission  of 


168        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

San  Antonio,  which  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  Coast 
Range  and  could  be  reached  by  a  trail  that  crossed 
the  mountains  at  this  point;  the  other,  to  study  a 
rare  tree,  the  Santa  Lucia  fir  (Abies  venusta) ,  which  is 
found  far  up  a  few  canons  of  this  range.  I  had  heard 
that  a  small  group  of  them  grew  in  the  San  Carp6- 
foro;  and  the  double  object  decided  me  to  turn  in- 
land. 

After  a  few  miles  the  trail  left  the  bottom  of  the 
canon  and  climbed  the  northern  wall.  Scattered 
willows  were  exchanged  for  shady  woods  of  oak  and 
maple,  with  thick  underbrush  of  wild  cherry,  buck- 
eye, and  many  other  flowering  shrubs.  The  fog  had 
lifted  by  noon,  but  long  before  sundown  white 
scarfs  of  vapor  again  floated  in,  eddying  in  elbows  of 
the  canon  or  creeping  with  serpentine  motion  along 
the  cliff-like  walls.  The  opposite  summit,  gaining 
an  increased  effect  of  height  from  the  belt  of  fog, 
rose  like  the  wall  of  some  legendary  sky  city. 

High  up  on  the  north  face  of  the  canon  I  came  upon 
the  ranch  of  my  friendly  acquaintance  of  Cambria. 
It  lies  about  midway  up  the  western  slope  of  the 
mountain,  backed  by  a  wood  of  fine  oaks,  and  look- 
ing out  over  the  deep  rift  of  the  canon  to  a  high  ridge 
crested  with  pines.  For  situation  the  spot  is  quite 
ideal,  and  its  elevation  of  seventeen  hundred  feet, 
with  its  nearness  to  the  sea,  give  it  an  unequalled 
climate.  In  the  orchard  I  saw  such  diverse  fruits 
as  cherries,  oranges,  and  butternuts,  with  many 
others,  all  growing  in  perfection. 


THE   PEAR   ORCHARD  169 

Again  it  was  Welsh  hospitality  to  which  I  fell 
debtor.  The  evening  sped  with  tales  of  sport,  for 
which  the  antlers,  skins,  and  other  trophies  that 
crowded  the  house  furnished  the  texts.  When  I 
awoke  at  dawn  next  morning,  I  looked  out  from  my 
bed  under  a  maple  upon  a  spectral  river  of  cloud  that 
filled  the  canon  below  me.  As  the  sun  rose,  the  vapor 
began  to  draw  away  in  shreds  and  skeins  of  gray, 
and  for  an  hour  we  were  enveloped  in  the  grateful 
moisture.  Another  hour,  and  the  sun  burned  as 
through  a  glass,  while  the  fruit  reddened  almost  as 
one  watched  it.  Yet  a  pleasant  coolness  held  in  the 
shade,  and  now  and  then  a  snowy  berg  of  cloud 
drifted  lazily  up  the  canon,  to  melt  away  as  it 
reached  the  warm  stratum  of  the  upper  air. 

There  are  the  remains  of  an  old  orchard  here- 
about, the  origin  of  which  is  a  mystery  to  the  few 
people  who  know  of  its  existence.  It  lay  near  my 
route,  and  I  turned  aside  to  pay  it  a  visit.  It  goes  by 
the  name  of  the  "Pear  Orchard,"  but  I  found  only 
one  pear  tree  remaining,  and  sharing  the  solitude 
with  a  score  or  so  of  hardy  olives.  By  comparison  of 
the  size  of  these  olives  with  others  I  have  seen  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Missions,  it  seemed  that  they  could 
hardly  be  less  than  a  century  old,  while  the  pear  was 
an  oak-like  tree,  the  Nestor  of  mortal  pears.  Who 
were  the  planters  of  this  secluded  mountain  garden? 
I  could  only  guess  that,  like  the  one  I  had  found  on 
the  Jalama,  it  had  been  an  outpost  of  one  of  the 
Franciscan  Missions,  and  had  been  cultivated  by 


170        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  old  padres  with  the  help  of  their  Indians.  But 
padres  and  Indians  alike  have  long  vanished,  and 
left  no  successors  to  claim  the  fruit  of  this  forgotten 
orchard. 

Chino's  sore  withers  had  become  so  troublesome 
that  I  resolved  to  cease  travelling  for  a  time  while 
I  doctored  and  rested  him.  A  few  miles  up  the  canon 
I  found  a  good  place  for  the  purpose,  where  a  cienaga 
provided  abundance  of  pasturage,  and  there  I  made 
camp,  under  a  great  oak  beside  the  creek.  I  had 
provisions  for  ten  days  or  more,  and  there  were 
plenty  of  trout  in  the  stream.  The  cienaga  produced 
medicine  as  well  as  forage,  in  the  shape  of  the  herb 
called  by  the  Spaniards  mastransia,  an  excellent 
remedy  for  such  troubles  as  Chino's,  either  in  horses 
or  men.  I  was  not  sorry  myself,  after  two  months 
in  the  saddle,  to  stay  for  a  time  in  this  attractive 
place.  Twice  a  day  I  brought  Chino  in  for  medical 
parade ;  otherwise  there  was  nothing  to  interfere  with 
a  programme  of  fishing,  mending,  botanizing  in  my 
humble  way,  or  unadulterated  loafing. 

About  a  mile  from  camp  I  found  the  group  of  firs 
I  wished  to  study.  They  grow  in  a  deep  and  narrow 
part  of  the  canon,  and  mostly  on  the  northward- 
facing  slope,  where  little  sun  reaches  them.  I  was 
greatly  interested  in  meeting  this  rare  tree,  of  which 
there  are  probably  not  more  than  a  thousand  or  two 
living.  In  shape  it  is  a  typical  fir,  straight,  spiry,  and 
symmetrical,  reaching  a  height  of  about  eighty  feet. 
The  foliage  is  stiff,  bright,  and  sharp-pointed,  and 


DUALITY   OF    CLIMATE  171 

the  cone  is  unique  for  the  long,  bristly  bracts  that 
protrude  from  between  the  scales.  The  cones  are 
produced  only  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  and  it  was  a 
little  trying  to  feel  the  slender  leader  bend  almost 
to  horizontal  under  my  weight  when  I  climbed  to 
secure  a  few  specimens. 

On  the  mountain-side  about  camp  grew  a  scatter- 
ing of  digger-pines  {Pinus  sabiniana),  becoming 
more  numerous  toward  the  summits.  It  was  a 
mark  of  the  peculiar  duality  of  climate  in  this  region 
that  both  the  moisture-loving  fir  and  this  drought- 
loving  pine  find  it  suited  to  their  contrary  natures. 
The  yucca,  and  the  great  golden  mentzelia,  five  feet 
high,  also  flourished  on  the  hotter  slopes,  the  former 
a  surprise  to  meet  in  this  latitude. 

I  found  that  I  had  been  largely  mistaken  in  my 
forecast  as  to  the  physical  features  of  this  part  of  the 
Coast  Range.  I  had  figured  this  western  slope,  where 
streams  are  numerous  and  summer  fogs  almost  per- 
petual, as  a  region  of  rugged  mountain,  bearing  a 
heavy  forest  of  coniferous  trees;  as  being  similar,  in 
fact,  to  the  corresponding  slope  of  the  Sierra  Nevada, 
but  with  more  of  timber,  by  reason  of  the  greater 
moisture  of  the  summer  climate.  Instead  of  this, 
I  found,  rising  from  the  coast,  steep  but  rounded 
hills  of  grass,  only  occasionally  ridging  up  to  rocky 
crests.  Files  of  oaks  grew  in  folds  and  hollows,  and 
mingled  with  them  in  the  deeper  canons  were  alders, 
sycamores,  willows,  and  the  fragrant  California 
laurel  (otherwise  known  as  myrtle,  pepperwood,  or 


172        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

bay).  Farther  north  I  found  the  slopes  steeper, 
the  canons  deeper  and  more  wooded,  and  the  crest 
of  the  range  (which  runs  higher  than  here)  densely- 
forested;  but  there  also  the  seaward  slopes  are 
rounded,  grassed  or  brushy,  and,  generally  speaking, 
scant  of  timber. 

Pictorially,  the  country  I  was  now  in  is  full  of 
beauty  and  character.  A  more  admirable  contrast 
of  color  could  not  be  imagined  than  these  massed 
slopes  of  quiet  gold,  gentle  in  contour,  but  striking 
in  height,  imposing  in  length  of  range,  and  blotted 
by  the  clustering  oaks  with  islands  of  serious  green. 
Especially  was  it  lovely  at  sunset,  when  the  summer- 
yellowed  hills  took  a  flush  of  rose,  the  long  canons 
were  shadowed  in  purple,  and  even  the  uncompro- 
mising blue  of  the  sky  warmed  to  a  tenderer  glow  of 
violet. 

The  flat  where  I  had  my  camp  had  once  been 
"  homesteaded  "  by  a  settler,  one  Heisel,  whose  mem- 
ory is  kept  alive  by  the  remains  of  his  fireplace.  It 
seemed  natural  that  the  last  token  of  a  home-loving 
German  (as  I  take  him  to  have  been)  should  be  his 
chimney.  My  blankets  were  spread  under  a  small 
oak  near  by,  and  I  made  a  point  of  smoking  my  even- 
ing pipe  beside  the  old  pile  of  stones  round  which, 
I  guessed,  his  own  tobacco  smoke  must  often  have 
eddied. 

I  had  been  nearly  two  weeks  in  camp,  and  it  had 
come  to  mid-August.  My  supplies  had  almost  run 
out,  and  Chino's  pasturage  was  becoming  scanty; 


A    HOT   CLIMB  173 

but  his  sores  were  looking  well,  and  it  seemed  safe, 
as  well  as  necessary,  to  move  on.  When  it  came  to 
starting,  I  became  conscious  again  how  quickly  any 
place  of  abode,  camp  no  less  than  cottage,  engages 
man's  instinct  for  a  home.  My  heart  fell  a  little  as 
I  took  a  last  look  round  the  little  clearing,  and  I 
waved  my  hand  sentimentally  to  the  oak  that  had 
been  my  "green  caravanserai."  Not  so  with  Chino, 
who  marched  off  so  cheerfully  that  it  was  plain  he 
suffered  no  pensive  emotions. 

I  had  got  such  instructions  as  I  could  regarding 
the  trail  across  the  mountains.  It  is  so  little  travelled 
that  only  twice  during  my  fortnight  in  camp  had 
anybody  passed  along  it:  but  it  is  well  marked,  and 
in  some  places  worn  deeply  into  the  earth.  I  suspect, 
indeed,  that  it  may  have  been,  in  Mission  days,  the 
trail  to  the  old  orchard  which  I  have  mentioned; 
and  that  it  was  from  the  firs  in  the  canon  (called 
drboles  de  incienso  by  the  Spaniards)  that  the  fathers 
at  San  Antonio  procured  the  aromatic  gum  for  in- 
cense. 

The  trail  led  steeply  up  the  mountain-side  to  the 
northeast.  There  was  a  hot  sun,  and  the  warm  wind 
from  the  interior  valleys  brought  more  distress  than 
refreshment.  I  had  saddled  Chino  with  special  care, 
to  avoid  chafing,  and,  with  a  view  to  his  comfort, 
had  packed  the  load  on  the  saddle,  as  I  intended  to 
lead  him.  I  did  not  fill  my  canteen,  as  I  relied  upon 
finding  water  where  I  crossed  the  creek  higher  up; 
but  at  the  first  crossing  it  was  quite  dry,  and  at  the 


174        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

second  only  a  couple  of  slimy  pools  remained  among 
the  boulders.  These  Chino  promptly  drank  dry. 
After  two  hours  of  pretty  strenuous  climbing  we 
came  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  from  which  I  looked 
out  over  a  wilderness  of  low  ranges,  colored  here  in 
dark  bands  of  "chamise,"  there  in  golden  slopes  of 
grass  thinly  stippled  with  oaks  and  digger-pines. 

I  made  a  hasty  lunch,  for  I  had  no  very  clear  idea 
of  the  distance  to  the  Nacimiento  River,  where  I 
intended  to  camp,  and  which  would  probably  be  the 
first  water  we  should  strike.  Then,  with  a  regretful 
glance  back  to  the  west  and  its  cool  fog  curtain,  we 
plunged  down  the  landward  slope.  The  sun  beat 
down  with  trying  fervor,  the  trail  was  rough  and 
difficult  with  brush,  and  shade  was  at  an  impossible 
premium.  A  couple  of  miles  down  I  found  the  re- 
mains of  a  settler's  house,  and  explored  for  water, 
but  without  success. 

An  hour  more  of  rough  going  brought  us  to  a  wide 
glade  wooded  with  oaks  of  unusual  size  and  beauty. 
They  were  the  great  valley  oak  of  California,  the 
roble  of  the  Spaniards.  The  species  was  well  known 
to  me,  but  nowhere  else  have  I  seen  it  reach  the 
stateliness  of  these  superb  trees.  The  huge  white 
trunks  and  fountain-like  flow  of  branches  had  a  sort 
of  Greek  perfection,  and  one  could  easily  understand 
why,  if  Greece  has  such  oaks  as  these,  they  were  held 
sacred  to  Zeus.  Here  were  the  remains  of  a  house, 
and  I  searched  again  for  water,  for  I  was  getting 
pretty  thirsty.    But  the  cracked  troughs  in  the  old 


CAMP    ON   THE    NACIMIENTO       175 

corral  gave  notice  that  I  need  not  expect  to  find  any, 
and  seemed  to  hint  at  the  reason  for  the  abandon- 
ment of  this  handsome  homestead. 

A  short  distance  beyond  this  place  the  trail  emerged 
at  a  divide,  and  I  saw  with  relief  the  canon  of  the 
Nacimiento  lying  below,  with  one  pool  of  blue 
water  shining  among  its  sun-bleached  boulders.  The 
opposite  wall  was  a  high,  perpendicular  bluff  of 
purple-red  rock,  barren  except  for  a  few  spectral 
digger-pines  that  grew  in  crannies,  or  leaned  in  lan- 
guid attitudes  on  the  summit.  It  was  an  unusual 
landscape,  and  one  worthy  of  particular  notice,  but  I 
was  too  tired  and  thirsty  to  enjoy  it,  and  hurried  on 
to  get  down  to  the  stream. 

The  trail  descended  the  north  side  of  the  canon, 
and  by  evening  we  debouched  at  river  level  into  a 
valley  of  grass,  oaks,  and  pines.  Fording  the  river 
we  went  into  camp  among  the  willows  on  the  farther 
bank.  I  was  amused  to  see  the  puny  size  of  the 
stream,  for  at  Cambria  I  had  heard  a  ranchman 
describe  how  he  had  nearly  lost  his  life  in  swimming 
it  with  his  horse  three  months  before,  and  I  had  in- 
tended to  use  caution  in  fording  it.  Such  are  the 
vagaries  of  Californian  rivers. 

There  was  a  deep  pool,  almost  landlocked,  close 
to  camp,  and  to  this,  after  supper,  I  repaired  for  a 
swim.  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  enjoyed  one  so 
much.  The  water  was  crystal  clear,  and  perfect  in 
temperature.  White  sand  formed  the  bottom;  one 
side  was  fringed  with  small  cottonwoods,  and  the 


i76        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

other,  where  the  water  was  deepest,  was  walled  di- 
rectly by  the  dark,  perpendicular  rock,  from  the 
crevices  of  which  waved  fringes  of  delicate  fern. 
The  moon  was  nearly  full,  but  it  was  not  yet  an  hour 
past  sunset,  and  the  day  hovered  on  that  quiet 
borderland  where  one  can  hardly  tell  shadows  from 
thoughts.  A  pale  flicker  of  moonlight  caught  the 
ridges  of  water  that  flowed  about  me  as  Iswam  slowly 
to  and  fro,  and  once  a  water-snake  slipped  noise- 
lessly away  before  me,  the  little  black  head  rippling 
the  water  into  lines  of  pallid  silver.  After  the  heat 
and  thirst  of  the  day  I  felt  half  inclined  to  sleep  in 
that  delicious  pool. 

Then  I  gathered  a  good  supply  of  fuel  and  spent 
a  luxurious  evening  in  company  with  a  small  but  lo- 
quacious fire.  To-morrow  would  be  Sunday,  and  we 
should  not  travel.  I  was  glad  that  it  occurred  that 
I  could  pass  a  day  by  this  stream,  which  I  had  long 
wished  to  see.  Even  the  name  seemed  to  invest  it 
with  a  special  charm.  I  take  it  to  have  a  religious 
reference ;  and  the  association  of  the  Holy  Birth  with 
the  quietude  and  beauty  of  Nature  that  reigned  in 
this  lonely  spot  seemed  very  happy.  I  suppose  there 
was  not  a  human  being  within  ten  miles  of  me  in  any 
direction. 

I  awoke  next  morning  in  time  to  catch  a  coyote 
nosing  at  the  saddle-bags,  which  I  had  hung  in  the 
fork  of  a  willow  twenty  yards  from  my  sleeping-place. 
A  shot  from  my  revolver  sent  him  scurrying.  The 
morning  was  passed  in  camp,  in  hope  of  offsetting 


ON     I  111      N  \«   1M1I-.N  I"     Kl\  IK 


SUNDAY    IN    CAMP  '177 

the  maximum  of  heat  by  a  minimum  of  exertion. 
In  the  afternoon  a  trifling  breeze  wandered  up  the 
canon,  and  I  spent  some  hours  in  trying  to  prospect 
out  to-morrow's  trail  among  the  tangle  of  cattle- 
paths  that  crossed  and  recrossed,  converged  and 
diverged,  all  over  the  country.  It  was  annoying  to 
find,  after  several  miles  of  tramping,  that  what  had 
seemed  to  be  the  principal  trail  led  again  to  the 
river,  by  which  I  knew  it  was  not  the  one  I  wanted. 
In  the  end  I  resolved  to  ignore  them  all,  and  strike 
across  country  by  compass. 

It  was  evening  when  I  got  back  to  camp,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  the  cooing  of  doves  and  the  whick, 
whick,  of  their  wings  as  they  flew  to  and  from  the 
river.  Once  when  I  went  down  to  the  stream  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  great  American  egret  {Herodias 
egretta),  unmistakable  in  its  snowy  beauty,  though 
not  now  wearing  the  bridal  plumes  that  have  almost 
brought  the  species  to  extermination.  I  noticed  also 
the  watermark  of  the  spring  rains  in  the  drift  that 
had  lodged  in  branches  fifteen  feet  above  the  present 
level,  and  could  better  appreciate  the  risk  in  swim- 
ming such  a  torrent,  nearly  a  furlong  wide  and  full 
of  hidden  traps  and  dangers. 

I  was  up  next  morning  by  moonlight,  and  after 
breakfast  doctored  Chino's  sore,  which  had  become 
inflamed  again  by  the  heat  and  the  climb  of  Satur- 
day. I  saddled  him  with  all  possible  care,  again  ar- 
ranging his  load  with  a  view  to  leading  instead  of 
riding  him.  Then  we  both  drank  deeply  at  the  creek, 


178        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

and  started  with  a  full  canteen.  I  had  no  map  of  the 
region,  for  there  is  a  gap  of  a  hundred  miles  or  so 
here  in  the  maps  of  the  Geological  Survey;  but  I 
gauged  the  direction  of  Jolon,  my  objective  point  in 
the  San  Antonio  Valley,  to  be  nearly  due  north, 
and  believed  I  could  trust  the  compass  better  than 
the  one  or  two  doubtful  landmarks  of  which  I  had 
been  told. 

The  country  ran  in  interminable  low  hills,  or 
lomas,  as  monotonous,  and  about  as  vacant  of  re- 
cognizable features,  as  a  tract  of  ocean;  but  it  was 
pretty  open,  and  only  cut  by  shallow  gullies  from 
which  the  water  had  vanished,  leaving  a  sickly  white 
incrustation  of  alkali.  Among  these  we  threaded  our 
way  hour  after  hour  without  much  difficulty,  while 
I  looked  carefully  at  every  trail  we  crossed  for  marks 
of  horses'  hoofs,  but  saw  nothing  but  the  tracks  of 
cattle,  coyotes,  and  deer,  except  once  where  a  bear's 
heavy  imprint  was  sunk  in  the  baked  clay  of  a  dry 
arroyo. 

Chino  was  in  unresponsive  mood,  though  I  tried 
to  interest  him  in  various  topics.  I  am  sure  that  by 
now  he  understood  much  of  what  I  said  to  him. 
Naturally,  I  did  not  choose  such  matters  as  politics 
or  the  price  of  pig-iron  for  discussion:  but  to  such 
sentiments  as  "Chino,  my  boy,  we're  doing  hand- 
somely, are  n't  we?"  or  "What  do  you  say  to  taking 
five  minutes  for  cooling  off,  old  fellow?"  I  am  sure 
he  responds  understandingly ;  while  when  I  attempt 
something  humorous,  as  "Well,  old  chap,  I  don't 


INTELLIGENCE   OF    CHIXO  179 

Bee  the  domes  and  minarets  of  Jolon  on  the  horizon 
yet,  do  you?"  he  replies  with  something  that  comes 
as  near  a  smile  as  is  possible  to  the  equine  counte- 
nance. Nature,  in  framing  this  best  of  quadrupeds, 
seems  very  judiciously  to  have  put  the  humorous 
ingredient  at  a  minimum.  It  would  be  unfortunate 
if  the  horse  were  so  constituted  as  to  care  as  much 
as  the  terrier,  for  instance,  for  practical  joking. 
Between  the  two  of  them,  it  seems  to  be  a  question 
whether  the  horse  or  the  dog  is  to  be  the  first  to 
surprise  his  master,  some  fine  day  not  far  ahead, 
by  bringing  out  the  epoch-making  words,  "Good- 
morning!" 

We  had  been  steadily  marching  northward  for 
several  warm  hours  when  the  cattle-path  we  were 
on  began  spontaneously  to  develop  symptoms  of 
wheel-tracks,  which  grew  imperceptibly  from  no- 
thing and  nowhere.  The  trail  widened  gradually 
into  an  unmistakable  road,  which  led,  on  the  whole, 
in  the  right  direction.  It  descended  a  long,  winding 
canon  through  sparse  timber,  emerging  at  last  upon 
a  river  which  I  knew  must  be  the  San  Antonio,  while 
beyond  the  low  range  of  hills  to  the  east  must  lie 
the  wide  valley  of  the  Salinas.  Then  came  a  fence, 
at  which  novel  sight  Chino  Btepped  out  with  more 
enthusiasm.  The  Stream  was  almost  dry,  but  under 
the  bank  I  found  a  little  trickle  of  water,  and  we 
took  an  hour  for  lunch  and  re^t. 

A  niik'  beyond  the  river  I  saw  a  ranch-house  in  the 
distance,  and  knew  by  a  flutter  of  linen  that  it  was 


180        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

inhabited.  A  young  woman  answered  my  hail  by 
opening  a  window  six  inches.  To  my  inquiry  whether 
I  was  on  the  road  to  Jolon,  she  replied  curtly,  "  Yes." 
"And  the  distance?"  "A  mile."  With  that  the  win- 
dow was  slammed  down  and  she  vanished.  This  was 
somewhat  chilling  demeanor  from  the  first  human 
being  I  had  seen  for  nearly  a  fortnight ;  but  the  news 
of  my  whereabouts  was  welcome  enough.  We  were 
soon  on  the  main  road,  and  by  evening  entered  the 
village  and  put  up  at  a  rustic  inn,  where  Chino 
tasted  once  again  the  comforts  of  a  stable  and  I  of 
feminine  cookery  and  housekeeping. 

Jolon  is  a  primitive  place,  though  not  an  old  one. 
It  lies  twenty  miles  from  the  railway,  but  on  a  road 
which  has  a  fair  amount  of  travel.  A  dozen  times  a 
day  an  automobile  charges  through,  with  passen- 
gers goggling  through  clouds  of  dust  to  catch  those 
flying  glimpses  which  seem  to  satisfy  the  people  who 
like  that  way  of  seeing  the  country.  The  village  con- 
sists of  two  store-and-hotel  combinations,  a  church 
seldom  used,  a  school,  three  saloons,  and  about  as 
many  small  residences. 

A  sound  of  strumming  came  continually  from  one 
or  other  of  the  saloons,  where  two  stolid  Indian 
youths  with  violin  and  mandolin  sat  playing  sans 
intermission  the  simple  and  rather  joyless  airs  to 
which  generations  of  their  people  have  danced  or 
shuffled.  They  played  in  an  oddly  mechanical 
fashion,  giving  no  least  token  of  pleasure  in  their 
occupation,  but  sawing  and  picking  away  in  a  poor, 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   JOLON  181 

dull  way  that  seemed  pathetically  to  illustrate  their 
racial  attitude  toward  life.  A  little  creek,  a  branch 
of  the  San  Antonio,  runs  through  the  village,  and  is 
vocal  all  day  with  plovers;  while  trios  and  quartettes 
of  coyotes,  wise  beyond  the  range  of  poison  or  rifle, 
perform  in  the  dusk  of  dawn  and  evening. 

Jolon  promptly  adjudged  me  to  be  a  prospector, 
and  the  classification  held  good  until  the  following 
noon,  when  my  landlord  approached  me  with  a 
sample  of  rock  and  requested  a  diagnosis.  I  saw  that 
he  disbelieved  me  when  I  said  that  I  could  not  tell 
quartz  from  quicksand,  but  was  convinced  when  I 
declared  his  specimen  to  be  volcanic  putty,  which 
it  certainly  resembled.  On  the  score  of  my  McClel- 
lan  saddle  I  was  next  placed  in  the  Forestry  Service, 
and  as  no  occasion  arose  for  disturbing  that  idea  I 
suppose  it  remained.  For  the  rest,  I  noted  that  the 
dialect  of  Jolon  is  rather  above  than  below  the  West- 
ern standard  in  amount  and  quality  of  profanity; 
and  that  days  when  the  thermometer  registers  a  hun- 
dred and  odd  degrees  are  pronounced  by  Jolonians 
to  be  agreeable. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Farewell,  Chino;  enter  Anton  —  Camp  at  the  Mission  of  San  An- 
tonio de  Padua:  crows,  ants,  swallows,  and  coyotes  —  Spanish 
hospitality  and  family  affection  —  Dog  versus  skunk  —  Digger- 
pines  —  Recrossing  the  crest  —  Santa  Lucia  Peak  —  Los  Bur- 
ros mining  settlement  —  A  voluble  box-lid  —  Delightful  trail  — 
Entering  the  redwoods  —  The  coast  again  —  Bold  scenery  — 
Pacific  Valley:  a  lonely  ranch:  "Striking  it  rich"  —  The  weekly 
mail. 

MY  only  regret  in  leaving  Jolon  was  that  there  I 
said  farewell  to  my  good  Chino.  The  rough- 
ness and  heat  of  the  journey  over  from  the  San 
Carp6foro  had  resulted  in  inflaming  his  withers 
again,  and  so  badly  that  it  would  be  at  least  two 
weeks  before  he  could  be  fit  for  the  troublesome  piece 
of  country  that  lay  ahead.  I  had  noticed  in  the  hotel 
stable  a  well-built  saddle-horse,  a  little  heavier  than 
Chino,  of  a  color  between  buckskin  and  sorrel,  and 
showing  that  dark  stripe  along  the  back  which  is 
recognized  by  experts  in  horseflesh  as  a  mark  of  su- 
perior toughness.  From  the  fact  that  he  had  last 
belonged  to  a  forest-ranger,  and  also  from  the  re- 
markable variety  of  brands  he  carried,  I  judged  that 
he  must  be  used  to  roughing  it ;  and  when,  on  a  trial 
canter,  he  proved  to  be  free  and  lively  without  un- 
due nervousness,  I  decided  on  the  change. 

It  went  much  against  the  grain  to  part  with  the 


THE.  MISSION    OF   SAN    ANTONIO     183 

loyal  companion  of  several  expeditions  by  California 
shore,  desert,  and  mountain.  But  the  summer  was 
getting  late  and  I  was  only  about  halfway  to  my 
goal,  so  that  I  must  not  lose  more  time  if  I  was  to 
finish  the  trip  before  the  rainy  season  set  in.  A 
"trade"  was  arranged.  I  filled  my  pockets  with 
Chino's  preferred  dainties,  paid  him  a  final  visit,  and 
lefl  him  munching  my  valedictory  apples  with  so 
much  indifference  that  poignant  regret  on  my  own 
side  seemed  superfluous. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  I  started  with  my  new 
acquisition  (whom  I  named  Anton,  by  way  of  re- 
ference to  the  San  Antonio  Valley,  in  which  Jolon 
is  situated)  for  the  Mission  of  San  Antonio.  The 
road  lay  up  a  pleasant  valley  of  oaks.  A  somnolent 
haze  overhung  the  landscape  and  deepened  the  tone 
of  the  distant  mountains  to  densest  purple.  The 
nearer  hills  rose  in  restful  shapes,  dotted  with  brush 
and  crested  with  phantasmal  digger-pines.  These 
trees  have  almost  the  air  of  a  mirage,  so  thin  and 
unsubstantial  do  they  appear. 

At  the  north  end  of  the  valley,  when-  the  hills 
closed  together,  1  came  to  the  Mission.  It  stands, 
ruined  and  solitary,  on  the  east  bank  of  the  river, 
and  looking  down  the  sunny,  oak-fillrd  valley.  In 
situation  it  was,  perhaps,  the  happiest  ol  all  the  Mis- 
sions; but,  like  nearly  all  the  others,  it  has  suffered 
from  both  spoliation  and  neglect,  and  the  beauty 
of  its  setting  seems  only  to  accent  the  desolation  of 
its  decay. 


1 84        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

The  remains  show  the  total  enclosure  to  have  been 
of  great  extent,  and  history  gives  it  as  one  of  the 
most  prosperous  and  important  of  all  the  chain. 
The  church,  which  has  lately  been  partly  repaired, 
is  a  lofty,  barnlike  structure,  with  no  remaining  traces 
of  interior  decoration  or  furnishing,  and  the  walls 
are  horribly  defaced  by  the  name-scratching  in- 
sanity of  sightseers.  The  facade,  built  of  the  durable 
Mission  tiles,  is  still  beautiful  in  its  tasteful  sim- 
plicity, and  a  few  skeleton  arches  of  the  quadrangle 
are  standing;  but  the  bells  have  long  since  disap- 
peared. Instead  of  vesper  chime,  the  air  was  raked 
by  the  strident  voices  of  many  crows,  disputing,  af- 
ter their  wont,  over  the  choice  roosts  in  the  cotton- 
woods.  It  needed  a  more  violent  effort  of  fancy  than 
I  was  capable  of  to  hear  in  the  shouts  of  these  pi- 
rates the  song  of  praise  which  poets  think  they  de- 
tect. In  pleasant  contrast,  St.  Anthony's  swallows, 
happiest  dispositioned  of  birds,  were  thrilling  with 
evening  joy,  and  seemed  to  weave  a  charm  of  com- 
munal friendliness  and  content  about  the  old  crumb- 
ling building. 

Hard  by  the  church  stand  a  few  indomitable  pear 
and  olive  trees,  as  thrifty  as  though  not  a  year  had 
passed  since  the  last  of  the  padres  of  San  Antonio 
forsook  his  hopeless  charge.  A  broken  rank  of  pome- 
granates marks  the  boundary  of  the  old  garden,  their 
uncompromising  green  and  scarlet  quite  out  of  har- 
mony with  every  other  element  of  the  scene.  A  small 
building  of  adobe,  a  hundred  yards  away,  was  inter- 


ANTS   AND    COYOTES  185 

esting  as  showing  the  early  California  method  of 
rooting.  The  heavy  rafters  and  ceiling  beams  were 
still  held  in  place  by  rawhide  lashings.  Layers  of 
tides  were  placed  on  the  rafters,  and  on  these  rested 
the  heavy  red  tiles.  I  learned  later  that  the  building 
had  been  the  Mission  jail. 

I  made  camp  by  a  brook  that  ran  in  a  hollow  be- 
hind the  church,  but  had  a  fancy  for  sleeping  among 
the  olives,  — a  fancy  for  which  I  paid  tribute  to  a 
spiteful  colony  of  ants.  Coyotes  sympathetically 
shared  my  vigil.  I  slept  uneasily,  and  was  awake  in 
ample  time  to  receive  their  adieus  as  they  stole  away 
to  cover  at  dawn.  These  animals  are  very  numerous 
in  this  locality,  and  as  I  rode  away  in  the  afternoon 
I  noticed  the  carcasses  of  several  of  them  hung  to 
the  limbs  of  the  trees  for  example  to  the  rest. 

Some  of  my  Spanish  friends  in  the  south  had  re- 
commended me  to  relatives  of  theirs  who  lived  near 
Jolon.  I  found  them  living  a  few  mile-  from  the  Mis- 
sion, and  was  received  in  the  kindest  manner  and 
made  welcome  to  stay  at  the  house.  It  was  a  g< » >d 
example  of  the  ranch-house  of  earlier  days,  a  sub- 
stantial adobe,  broad  of  verandas,  and  shady  with 
locusts,  almonds,  and  clustering  roses.  There  was 
an  orchard  of  tine  old  trees,  and  a  well  of  specially 

soft  water  to  which  the  young  beauties  of  the  neigh- 
borhood were  wont   to  resort  on  Sundays,  a  d< 
in  a  bevy,  to  wash  their  dusky  tresses.      It   would 

make  a  pretty  sight,  the  row  of  -iris  with  lock-  dis- 
hevelled,  sitting  in   the  sun   beside  the   tamarisk 


186        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

hedge,  laughing  over  the  gallantries  of  young  Ar- 
turos  and  Robertos,  and  laying  trains  of  harmless 
malice  for  firing  at  the  next  fandango.  Here  again 
it  was  most  pleasant  to  see  the  family  affection  to 
which  I  have  referred  in  previous  pages  as  a  notice- 
able feature  of  Spanish  and  Mexican  life.  Little 
Julio,  and  Adriano,  and  Engracia  came  clambering 
about  their  genial  giant  of  a  father,  calling  him 
by  his  pet  name  of  Tito :  and  the  senora  might  have 
sat  as  model  for  the  picture  of  a  happy  wife. 

A  brother  of  my  entertainer  happening  in,  I  was 
carried  off  to  spend  a  day  or  two  at  his  house  ten 
miles  up  country.  We  rode  the  whole  distance  through 
unbroken  oak  forest,  and  the  house,  set  at  the  foot 
of  a  wooded  hill  and  on  the  bank  of  the  San  Antonio 
River,  occupies  a  position  that  might  be  coveted  by 
millionaires.  Deer  and  quail  are  plentiful ;  the  river 
abounds  with  trout;  and  even  salmon-spearing  is 
no  rarity.  The  veranda  was  a  sort  of  epitome  of 
California  sport;  Dona  Petronela  was  bound  that 
I  should  taste  all  the  delicious  Spanish  dishes  at 
their  best ;  both  husband  and  wife  were  full  of  inter- 
esting conversation  on  matters  and  manners  now 
passed  away ;  and  altogether,  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able episodes  of  the  whole  journey  was  the  two  days 
I  passed  in  that  tasteful  home. 

From  here  I  was  to  cross  the  mountains  again  to 
the  coast.  My  host  accompanied  me  a  mile  or  two  to 
put  me  on  the  trail.  A  couple  of  the  dogs  came  with 
us,  in  hope  of  some  interesting  incident,  which  came 


DIGGER-PINES  187 

when  my  companion  spied  a  skunk,  which  he  shot 
from  the  saddle.  The  dogs  rushed  off  joyfully  to 
do  their  part,  and  received  a  full  volley  of  the  pe- 
culiar skunk  artillery  at  close  range.  It  was  intensely 
comic  to  see  their  frantic  disgust,  and  the  vain  at- 
tempts they  made  to  rub,  scrub,  scratch,  drown,  or 
outrun  the  vile  legacy  bequeathed  them  by  innocent 
little  Mephitis  americana. 

At  the  place  where  the  coast  trail  crosses  the  river 
my  friend  said  good-bye  and  turned  back,  while  I 
struck  up  the  mountain.  Digger-pines  were  numer- 
ous, and  came  as  near  to  forming  a  forest  as  this 
singular  species  ever  attains.  It  is  the  most  shadeless 
of  trees.  There  may  seem  to  be  a  fair  density  of 
foliage,  but  the  sun  somehow  gets  through  the  airy 
tassels  with  hardly  any  loss  of  power,  and  the  ground 
below  shows  only  the  faintest  tone  of  gray.  This 
peculiarity  was  again  impressed  upon  me  as  I  led 
my  horse  up  the  steep  mountain-side  under  a  sun 
of  semi-desert  heat,  and  it  was  with  relief  that,  on 
reaching  the  first  high  ridge,  I  saw,  a  few  miles  to 
the  west,  the  blue  of  substantial  forest,  and,  beyond, 
the  familiar  white  band  of  fog  overhanging  the 
Pacific. 

Reaching  at  length  an  altitude  where  the  finer 
yellow-pines  began,  we  halted  for  rest.  Far  to  the 
north  I  could  distinguish  Santa  Lucia  Peak,  the 
culminating  point  of  the  range,  cut  in  a  band  of  solid 
purple  on  the  fainter  blue  of  the  sky.  As  we  crossed 
the  next  divide  there  opened  suddenly  a  full  view 


188        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

to  the  west.  A  huge  canon  fell  away  abruptly  from 
where  I  stood,  the  northward-facing  slope  draped 
darkly  in  forest,  the  southward  in  lighter  brown  of 
"chamise,"  and  the  seaward  opening  filled  with  a 
gleaming  barrier  of  fog,  that  broke  here  and  there 
into  curling  waves  of  vapor.  A  cool  wind  blew  from 
the  ocean,  and  I  hailed  with  pleasure  the  return  to 
coast  conditions  of  climate. 

Now  came  a  long  descent  through  fragrant  forest 
of  pine,  spruce,  and  madrono.  It  was  evening  when 
we  came  to  a  point  where  a  side  trail  led  down  to 
the  mining  settlement  of  Los  Burros.  A  mile  brought 
us  to  the  village,  where  we  found  accommodation 
at  a  quaint  little  hutch  of  a  place,  kept  by  a  Ger- 
man whose  quiver  was  not  only  full,  but  bursting, 
with  tow-headed,  chattering  children.  The  mines 
are  not  of  great  importance,  but  at  least  they  have 
disproved  the  belief  that  was  for  a  long  time  preva- 
lent, that  this  part  of  California  was  barren  of  gold. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  that  I  saw  next  morning 
when  we  had  climbed  out  of  the  hollow  in  which  Los 
Burros  lies,  and  I  looked  out  to  the  west.  The  fog 
was  not  far  below  me,  and  I  seemed  to  stand  be- 
tween two  firmaments,  the  blue  of  the  upper  and  the 
gray  of  the  lower  sky.  Around  me  was  spread  a 
stratum  of  landscape  in  brilliant  sunlight,  with 
Santa  Lucia  Peak  glowing  like  an  opal  in  its  setting 
of  sumptuous  pine  foliage. 

At  a  little  cabin  beside  the  trail  I  paused  to  read 
a  notice  that  had  been  inscribed  on  a  box-lid,  ap- 


A    VOLUBLE   BOX-LID  189 

parently  with  a  red-hot  nail.  In  fervor  of  composi- 
tion it  suggested  the  "agony  column,"  with  a  touch 
of  Flora  Casby,  in  "Little  Dorrit,"  thrown  in.  This 
is  how  it  read :  — 

Notice  the  bond  will  be  Taken  up,  this  is  Gold  ridge  and  dont 
you  forget  it  sir  Mines  to  bond  all  on  the  Famous  Mother  lode 
Free  Milling  quartz  Cyaniding  ore  and  Placer  ground  on  the 
Famous  Spruce  creek  Bigest  bar  Famous  Nugget  lode  at  head  of 
Spruce  Creek  above  it  terms  reasonble  inquire  Right  here. 

The  house  appeared  to  be  vacant,  but  I  did  not  care 
to  risk  meeting  the  voluble  dealer  in  "prospects," 
and  hurried  away. 

That  morning's  trail  was  the  most  delightful  I 
had  experienced  on  the  trip,  winding  down  the  for- 
ested mountain-side  among  yellow-pines,  oaks,  and 
madronos.  The  ground  was  all  ashy  rose  with  the 
fallen  leaves  of  the  last-named  tree,  and  was  like  one 
of  those  wonderful  old  Persian  rugs.  Across  the 
canon  the  mountains  rose  in  steep  slopes  of  faded 
gold,  laced  here  and  there  with  dark  files  of  timber; 
and  beyond,  the  distant  back  ranges  receded  in 
varying  tones  of  blue.  The  fog  was  slowly  drawing 
out  to  sea,  and  suddenly,  as  if  a  curtain  were  partly 
lifted,  I  could  look  beneath  the  sheet  of  dazzling 
cloud  and  see  the  crinkled  water  a  thousand  feet  be- 
low, leaden  in  the  shadow  of  the  dense  vapor.  A 
short  distance  up  the  coast  Cape  San  Martin  stood 
sharply  out,  a  line  of  surf  marking  where  the  great 
shoulder  of  mountain  plunged  into  the  ocean. 

At  a  bend  of  the  trail  I  noticed  a  cluster  of  slender 


1 9o         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

pyramids,  rising  among  the  pines,  dressed  with 
close,  feathery  plumes.  They  were  redwoods  (Se- 
quoia sempervirens) ,  no  less  beautiful  and  hardly  less 
wonderful  than  their  cousins,  the  Giant  Trees  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada.  I  was  now  entering  upon  the  terri- 
tory of  this  exclusive  tree,  which  grows  nowhere  but 
in  the  fog-belt  of  the  coast  from  here  to  the  north- 
ern limit  of  the  State.  I  greeted  it  with  enthusiasm, 
forecasting  the  many  delightful  days  during  which 
I  should  be  in  its  companionship.  If  there  had  been 
pasturage  available  I  would  have  celebrated  the 
meeting  with  a  night  and  a  camp-fire,  but  the  best 
I  could  do  was  to  decorate  my  sombrero  and  Anton's 
bridle  with  sprigs  of  the  handsome  foliage.  The 
trees  had  been  cut  a  few  years  before,  and  I  noted 
the  vigorous  growth  of  saplings  that  encircled  each 
great  stump.  One  may  often  see  a  number  of  the 
trees  growing  thus  in  a  complete  ring,  marking  the 
circumference  of  some  vanished  monster.  No  tree 
yields  better  returns  to  intelligent  methods  of  for- 
estry than  this  one,  as  valuable  for  its  uses  as  it  is 
splendid  in  its  growth. 

The  trail  descended  for  mile  after  mile  through 
this  charming  woodland,  issuing  at  last  on  the  shore 
at  the  mouth  of  Willow  Creek.  Here  the  fog  again 
enveloped  us  in  its  cool  embrace.  I  gathered  that 
this  was  Anton's  first  introduction  to  the  sea,  for  he 
halted  and  gazed  at  it  with  deep  attention,  head 
cocked  slightly  sideways,  as  I  found  to  be  his  habit 
on  encountering  a  novelty. 


THE  COAST   AGAIN  191 

Close  by  the  place  where  Willow  Creek  flows  out 
is  the  prominent  headland  generally  known  as 
Point  Gorda.  There  being  two  other  capes  of  the 
name  in  California,  this  one  has  been  officially  named 
("ape  San  M.utin.  The  Point  forms  the  southern 
arm  of  a  rocky  bay,  on  which  the  westering  sun 
now  Bhone  palely,  half  veiled  by  the  vapor  that  was 
again  beginning  to  creep  inland.  The  fog  movement 

on  this  coast  during  summer  is  almost  as  regular  as 
the  swing  of  the  tides,  and  the  long  cations  running 
east  and  west  act  like  funnel-  for  the  constant  inter- 
change of  air  between  sea  and  land. 

The  shore  here,  as  all  along  this  mountain-walled 
coast,  is  bold  and  scenic,  fringed  everywhere  with 
islets  about  which  the  water  coils  and  lurches  in  un- 
ceasing turmoil.  I  cannot  imagine  a  m<>re  alluring 
yachting  ground  than  this  hundred-mile  reach  of 
lonely  water,  with  it-  harrier  of  summer  gold  or  win- 
ter emerald;  and  in  the  coming  era  of  air  travel  one 
of  the  inducement-  held  out  to  tourists  by  the  Pa- 
cific Coasl  Aerial  Transportation  Company  will 
certainly  be  "  the  unrivalled  panorama  of  the  Santa 

Lucia  chain  of  mountain-,  rearing  it-  glowing  ram- 
part from  the  isle-gemmed  empire  of  the  sea  t<>  the 
azure  vault  "t  the  empyrean      "  etc.,  etc. 

We  now  climbed  a  steep  trail  cut  in  the  (m*-  <>f  the 
cliff.  The  flash  and  thunder  <>f  the  -urf  below  were 
so  trying  to  Anton's  nerves  that  the  expedition  nar- 
rowly escaped  a  tragic  final*  on  the  rocks  beneath. 
Coming  to  the  top,  1  saw  a  narrow  bench  of  land  ex- 


i92        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

tending  a  mile  or  two  to  the  north ;  the  only  stretch 
of  level  land  along  the  Santa  Lucia  coast,  and  digni- 
fied with  the  name  of  Pacific  Valley  (though  there 
is  really  nothing  at  all  valley-like  about  it).  In  the 
distance  were  the  weather-beaten  buildings  of  a 
ranch,  where  in  due  course  we  arrived,  and  found 
entertainment  with  hearty,  simple  people. 

The  place  was  picturesque  with  a  frontier-like 
litter  of  odds  and  ends.  On  the  pickets  of  the  fence 
I  counted  eight  sets  of  deer  antlers,  and  the  walls  of 
the  outhouses  bore  a  notable  array  of  pelts  of  sheep, 
deer,  oxen,  wild-cats,  seals,  and  smaller  animals. 
Miners'  pans  and  mortars,  mineral  specimens,  fish- 
ing-gear, and  rifles  marked  the  varied  interests  of 
the  family  life.  I  looked  with  curiosity  (not  imper- 
tinent, I  hope)  at  the  weary-looking,  elderly  house- 
wife, for  I  had  heard  that  a  few  months  previously 
the  family  had  "struck  it  rich."  A  landslide  had 
uncovered  a  ledge  of  very  valuable  gold-bearing 
quartz  on  their  property,  and  had  promoted  them 
at  a  step  from  the  frugal  comfort  of  farmers  to  a  rea- 
sonable certainty  of  easy  wealth.  I  could  not  but 
wonder  what  would  be  the  physical,  mental,  moral, 
and  spiritual  results. 

The  father,  now  dead,  had  carried  the  weekly 
mails  for  fifteen  years  by  pack-horse  from  Jolon  over 
the  trail  I  had  just  travelled.  Jim,  his  old  depart- 
mental mule,  retired  from  service,  roams  about  the 
ranch,  respected  by  horse  and  man  alike.  The  day 
that  I  arrived  chanced  to  be  mail-day,  so  I  had  the 


THE   WEEKLY    MAIL  193 

opportunity  of  seeing  the  excitement  when,  long 
after  dark,  a  clatter  of  hoofs  announced  the  event 
of  the  week,  and  young  Benito,  whose  acquaintance 
I  had  made  at  Jolon,  went  jingling  past  on  his  way 
to  the  post-office  at  Gorda,  a  mile  farther  up  the 
trail.  I  was  glad  to  find,  by  the  example  of  this 
pleasant  family,  that  it  is  yet  possible  to  live  where 
mail  comes  once  a  week,  and  telegraph  or  telephone 
messages  are  impossible,  and  still  be  comfortable 
and  contented. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Camp  at  Mill  Creek  —  "Tools  and  the  man "  —  A  serpentine  trail  — 
Lucia,  a  postal  frontier  —  A  lost  school-house  —  The  tan-bark 
oak  —  A  Coast  Range  sunset  —  Gamboa's  Ranch:  a  rare  situa- 
tion —  Sudden  changes  of  scenery  —  The  trail  lost  again:  rough 
scrambling  —  Little's  Springs:  a  bath  in  mid-air  —  Unseen 
choristers  —  Two  hundred  feet  of  magazines  —  Camp  among  the 
redwoods  —  Superb  trees  —  Castro's  Ranch. 

IT  was  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  I  left  Pacific 
Valley.  A  few  miles  up  coast  the  view  was  closed 
by  the  promontory  of  Lopez  Point,  on  the  hither 
side  of  which  is  a  stream  called  Mill  Creek,  where  I 
proposed  camping  for  Sunday.  The  afternoon  was 
bright,  for  a  change,  and  I  travelled  slowly,  revel- 
ling in  the  romping  wind  and  the  splendid  color-play 
of  the  sea.  The  mountains  again  rose  abruptly  from 
the  shore  in  folds  of  faded  gold  that  were  swept  by 
flying  cloud-shadows  and  chequered  with  clear- 
blocked  masses  of  timber  in  canon  and  on  crest. 
Again  I  longed  to  be  a  painter,  —  a  great  painter, 
one  to  whom  the  subjectiveness,  the  spirituality,  of 
color  should  be  known,  and  who  might  transcribe 
this  fine  fragment  of  Nature  in  all  its  material  and 
immaterial  beauty.  There  is  a  largeness  and  free- 
dom about  this  little-visited  coast  that  puts  the 
mind  under  stimulus,  and  almost  rids  one  of  that 
deadly  incubus  of  experience  which  so  sadly  dulls 
the  edge  of  our  impressions. 


TOOLS   AND    THE   MAN  195 

At  Mill  Creek  I  found  one  of  the  "landings" 
which  take  the  place  of  harbors  on  this  rocky  coast, 
—  a  crane,  cable,  and  windlass  by  which  freight  is 
sent  up  or  down  between  cliff  and  water.  I  found 
my  friends  from  the  ranch  at  work  at  a  pile  of  red- 
wood timbers  which  they  were  about  to  raft  down 
to  their  own  landing.  There  is  no  lack  of  variety  in 
the  occupations  of  the  settlers  on  the  coast  of  the 
Santa  Lucia.  "Tools  and  the  man"  will  be  the  text 
of  the  Virgil  of  this  region.  I  made  camp  beside 
the  creek,  but  the  pasturage  was  so  scanty  that  it 
was  necessary  to  take  Anton  a  mile  farther,  to  where 
a  Mexican  lived  from  whom  I  might  buy  hay.  Here 
Anton  was  accommodated  in  the  stable,  and  when, 
after  a  pleasant  chat,  I  returned  to  camp,  I  carried 
back  a  sizable  venison  steak,  pressed  upon  me  by 
the  good  people. 

The  fog  was  unusually  dense  at  night,  and  by 
morning  my  blankets  were  soaking.  I  kept  up  a 
roaring  fire  for  comfort  till  noon,  when  the  weather 
cleared,  and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  seeking 
shady  places  for  relief  from  the  sun.  The  creek  was 
full  of  trout,  and  two  hours  of  the  evening  sufficed 
to  catch  my  breakfast  and  enough  to  make  a  fair 
return  for  my  venison. 

The  trail  next  day  continued  to  wind  along  the 
cliff,  diving  every  half-mile  or  so  into  a  wooded 
canon  and  giving  a  charming  alternation  of  land- 
and  sea-scape.  If  the  course  of  this  trail  were  drawn 
in  bird's-eye  fashion  it  would  show  a  surprising  ser- 


i96        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

pentine,  and  the  ratio  of  air-line  distance  to  actual 
travelling  would  be  a  remarkable  one  if  it  were  cal- 
culated. 

In  one  of  the  canons  I  found  the  home  of  an  old 
settler.  It  made  an  inviting  appearance,  with  its 
garden  of  herbs  and  flowers  and  its  half-acre  of 
fruits  and  vegetables.  A  boy  was  cleaning  a  rifle  by 
the  gate,  and  through  the  open  door  I  could  see  the 
owner  of  the  place ;  a  man  of  so  little  curiosity  that, 
although  I  may  easily  have  been  the  first  passer-by 
for  a  week,  he  neither  asked  nor  cared  to  see  who  the 
traveller  might  be.  Usually,  the  arrival  of  a  stranger 
would  bring  out  all  hands  and  a  host  of  questions. 

In  another  and  deeper  canon,  known  as  Lime 
Kiln  Canon,  I  came  upon  the  remains  of  a  consider- 
able building  filled  with  machinery,  all  now  fallen 
into  wreck.  The  place  was  a  wilderness  of  ferns, 
flowers,  and  noble  redwoods,  and  I  had  to  resist  a 
strong  inclination  to  camp  there,  backed  by  Anton 
on  the  score  of  a  scanty  cropping  of  green  fodder. 
The  climb  out  was  long  and  strenuous,  but  Anton 
did  himself  credit,  and,  indeed,  I  had  constant  rea- 
son to  congratulate  myself  on  the  exchange  I  had 
made. 

After  some  miles  of  steady  travelling  my  next 
landmark  came  in  sight  far  ahead,  a  farmhouse  set 
high  up  on  the  hillside.  It  was  always  a  relief  to 
find  that  I  was  on  the  right  track,  for  besides  being 
little  travelled  the  trails  are  much  complicated  with 
cattle-trails.  The  house  proved  to  be  also  the  post- 


A    LOST    SCHOOL-HOUSE  197 

office  of  Lucia,  the  farthest  outpost  of  the  postal 
service  in  this  direction.  Here  (on  Monday)  I 
mailed  letters  which,  after  lying  here  until  Saturday, 
would  be  taken  to  Gorda,  where  they  would  wait 
until  the  following  Saturday  before  starting  for  Jolon 
and  the  inhabited  world. 

Now  began  another  stiff  climb,  compensated  by 
fine  expansive  views  to  seaward.  I  was  astonished 
to  find  a  school  up  here  on  this  lonely  mountain-side. 
The  scholars  had  just  been  dismissed  and  were  play- 
ing round  the  neat  little  building.  Of  the  ten  or 
twelve  I  saw  while  I  stopped  to  chat  with  them,  all 
but  two  were  Mexican,  —  a  fact  which  helped  to  ex- 
plain there  being  so  many  children  within  range,  for 
Mexican  families  are  apt  to  be  a  good  deal  larger 
than  American,  and  three  little  homes  might  easily 
contribute  a  dozen  or  more  youngsters  of  school  age. 

A  couple  of  miles  farther  on  I  came  on  one 
such  home,  —  a  picturesque,  weather-beaten  house 
shaded  by  fruit  trees  whose  size  showed  a  probable 
age  of  some  forty  years.  A  tall,  white-haired  old 
man  who  was  sitting  in  the  porch  came  forward  and 
greeted  me  in  Spanish  as  I  reined  up,  inquiring 
whether  I  would  not  dismount.  I  was  glad  to  do  so, 
and  passed  a  pleasant  half-hour  with  him  and  his 
eldest  son.  Again  I  found  that  the  mere  mention  of 
having  friendly  acquaintance  with  a  compatriot  was 
enough  to  ensure  the  kindest  reception. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  I  got  my  directions 
for  the  next  ranch,  where  I  intended  to  stay  for  the 


198        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

night.  Crossing  the  deep  canon  of  Vicente  Creek, 
the  trail  bore  steadily  up  the  mountain-side  until  it 
must  have  reached  a  height  of  well  over  two  thou- 
sand feet.  In  the  canons  hereabouts  the  tan-bark 
oak  (Quercus  densiflora) ,  that  curious  link  between 
oak  and  chestnut,  grows  freely,  and  the  gathering 
and  shipping  of  the  bark  formerly  made  a  consider- 
able industry  here,  as  it  still  does  along  the  coast 
farther  north.  At  one  spot,  known  as  Tan-Bark 
Camp,  I  noticed  the  remains  of  a  large  abandoned 
encampment. 

Higher  still,  and  near  the  crest,  I  came  into  a  re- 
gion of  magnificent  yellow-pines  and  redwoods.  It 
was  sundown,  and  the  view  was  a  remarkable  one. 
The  sun  shone  level,  and  with  a  strange  bronze  hue, 
through  a  translucent  veil  of  fog.  Below  the  fog  the 
surface  of  the  ocean  was  clear,  and  was  flooded  with 
gorgeous  purple  by  the  sunset.  On  the  high  crest 
where  I  stood,  a  clear,  warm  glory  bathed  the  golden 
slopes  of  grass  and  lighted  the  noble  trees  as  if  for 
some  great  pageant.  There  was  a  solemnity  in  the 
splendor,  an  unearthly  quality  in  the  whole  scene, 
that  kept  me  spellbound  and  bareheaded  until,  fate- 
fully,  imperceptibly,  the  sun  had  set. 

The  situation  of  Gamboa's  Ranch  is  superb,  the 
very  finest  I  know.  The  house,  an  old  and  pictur- 
esque one,  hangs  like  an  eyrie  on  the  mountain- 
side, which  here  is  so  high  and  steep  that  one  looks 
down  upon  the  vast  expanse  of  ocean  as  if  from  a 
two  or  three  thousand  foot  cliff.   Downs  of  rich 


IN     Mil.    Ill  AKI     ol      IIII-:    COASl     K  \N..I 


GAMBOA'S    RANCH  199 

grass-land  fill  the  view  to  north,  south,  and  east, 
with  great  pines  clothing  every  ridge  and  hollow. 
The  fog  seldom  reaches  to  this  height;  yet  its  cool- 
ness tempers  the  summer,  and  the  climate  forms  a 
perfect  combination  of  the  sea,  mountain,  and  forest 
elements. 

The  "boys"  were  away  driving  cattle  across  the 
mountains,  but  the  wife,  a  pretty  Mexican  woman, 
made  me  welcome,  and  after  a  supper  of  venison  with 
frijoles  and  tortillas,  entertained  the  hired  man 
and  me  with  a  phonograph  medley  of  favorite  Span- 
ish airs.  It  was  something  of  a  shock  to  find  that 
even  these  farthest  recesses  of  the  mountains  had 
not  escaped  the  terrible  machine,  which  I  suppose 
by  now  is  rousing  the  echoes  of  Nova  Zembla  and 
the  Mountains  of  the  Moon.  I  slept  under  an  apple 
tree  in  the  orchard,  which  was  festooned  through- 
out with  ropes  of  venison  "jerky."  During  the  deer 
season,  venison  is  as  much  a  staple  of  these  moun- 
taineers as  potatoes  are  all  the  year  to  dwellers  in 
town. 

A  mile  or  two  beyond  Gamboa's  is  the  Arroyo 
Grande,  one  of  the  deepest  canons  of  the  range.  I 
had  been  but  little  on  horseback  since  we  entered 
this  rougher  country,  wishing  to  spare  Anton  as 
much  as  possible:  a  point  of  necessity,  indeed,  for 
the  trail  was  almost  always  either  steep  in  grade  or 
lay  along  slopes  sharp  enough  to  make  the  conse- 
quences of  a  stumble  something  more  than  annoying. 
I  now  led  Anton  carefully  down  the  stair-like  de- 


200        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

scent,  which  took  us  from  open  grassy  slopes, 
through  a  region  of  flowery  brush,  into  a  shadowy 
canon  of  redwoods  with  a  lively  stream.  Here 
again  it  was  a  trial  that  the  total  absence  of  forage 
forbade  camping,  for  otherwise  the  place  was  super- 
lative for  the  purpose.  Half  a  mile  farther  on  we 
crossed  the  north  fork  of  the  same  stream,  where  I 
had  to  endure  a  similar  tantalization.  Then  came  a 
long,  hard  climb  out,  with  alternate  blaze  of  open 
hillside  and  slumberous  shade  of  canon. 

These  changes  are  startlingly  sudden  throughout 
this  region.  From  steep-walled  clefts  filled  with  si- 
lent companies  of  straight-stemmed  trees  and  roofed 
with  a  green  firmament  of  foliage,  one  passes  with- 
out warning  to  breezy  hillsides  of  sun-scorched  grass 
or  brittle  gray  sage  and  buckwheat,  where,  far  be- 
low, the  greatest  of  oceans  stretches  from  the  line  of 
the  cliff,  out,  and  away,  to  infinitude  and  China.  • 

The  country  hereabouts  was  marked  everywhere 
with  an  unconscionable  tangle  of  cattle-paths,  among 
which  it  was  quite  impossible  to  keep  the  trail.  I  knew 
that  I  needed  to  keep  well  up  on  the  mountain,  but 
with  a  mile  of  steep  slant  to  guess  on  I  was  soon 
hopelessly  at  fault.  Moreover,  the  slope  was  cut 
vertically  by  rocky,  brush-filled  gullies  which  both- 
ered Anton  greatly.  Several  times  I  had  to  build 
or  cut  a  way  for  him.  He  was  behaving  so  bravely 
and  sagaciously  that  when,  at  one  place,  after  I  had 
spent  half  an  hour  in  building  trail,  he  pointedly  re- 
fused to  trust  himself  to  it,  I  thought  it  best  to  defer 


LITTLE'S   SPRINGS  201 

to  his  instinct  and  waive  the  point,  though  to  round 
the  head  of  the  gully  meant  another  hard  climb.  As 
it  was,  he  received  some  cuts  about  the  knees,  hocks, 
and  feet,  and  I  looked  at  him  with  compunction 
when,  at  last,  we  picked  up  a  more  likely  trail,  and 
rested  for  ten  minutes  to  recuperate  and  repair 
damages. 

Far  ahead,  and  nearly  at  shore  level,  I  could  see  a 
tumble-down  mess  of  corrals  and  cabins  which  I 
knew  must  mark  an  abandoned  ranch  called  Dolan's. 
I  had  been  advised  to  camp  there,  on  account  of 
there  being  water  and  a  little  pasturage;  but  when 
we  reached  the  place  it  looked  so  woe-begone  and 
generally  uninviting  that,  fagged  as  we  both  were, 
I  resolved  to  push  on  to  some  more  desirable  spot. 
So  on  we  marched  for  weary  miles,  now,  fortu- 
nately, over  a  better  trail,  and  at  last,  rounding 
the  head  of  another  deep  canon,  came  to  Little's 
Springs,  otherwise  known  as  Slate's. 

Here  I  found  a  comfortable,  old-fashioned  house 
where  I  could  put  up  for  the  night.  In  fact,  the  place 
makes  some  claim  to  rank  as  a  resort,  by  virtue  of  its 
medicinal  springs,  though  no  guests  were  in  evidence, 
nor  any  token  of  either  expectation  or  accommoda- 
tion for  them.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house  I 
found  a  couple  of  tents  pitched  on  a  ledge  of  rock 
halfway  down  the  hundred-foot  bluff.  In  them  were 
bath-tubs  to  which  hot  sulphur  water  was  led  from 
springs  that  break  out  all  along  the  cliff,  'lent-  and 
tubs  had  been  hauled  up  with  windlass  and  cable 


202        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

from  the  vessel  that  brought  them  down  from  San 
Francisco,  and  then  had  been  lowered  over  the  cliff 
on  to  the  ledge  near  the  springs.  It  was  an  enjoy- 
able experience  to  bathe  thus,  as  it  were,  in  mid-air, 
with  gulls  screaming  all  around  and  breakers  roar- 
ing fifty  feet  below. 

Fog  again  enveloped  us  when  we  started  next 
morning.  I  was  told  that  the  trail  from  this  place 
was  an  official  one,  being  kept  up  by  the  county,  and 
I  communicated  the  news  to  Anton  for  his  consola- 
tion. It  kept  close  along  the  cliff,  as  I  could  tell  by 
the  sound  of  the  surf  and  the  cries  of  sea-birds  far 
below.  It  was  very  interesting  to  travel  thus,  as  was 
often  the  case,  in  company  with  unseen  comrades, 
beauties,  or  dangers.  Once  I  heard  a  company  of 
land-birds  singing  away  merrily  in  some  bush  in  the 
fog  below  me.  It  had  a  charming  sound,  reminding 
one  of 

"...  magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

I  often  wished  I  were  some  small  fraction  of  a 
Keats  myself,  to  put  the  beauty  of  such  little  inci- 
dents into  felicitous  phrase. 

Now  and  then  a  rift  in  the  vapor  showed  for  a 
moment  the  dull  gray  gleam  of  the  combers  as  they 
plunged  shoreward,  or  the  dark  fringe  of  rocks,  for- 
ever pushing  back  the  wash  of  the  sea.  In  the  canons 
the  fog  made  a  strange  white  gloom,  dense  but 
luminous,  through  which  great  stems  of  trees  stood 


UNSEEN    CHORISTERS  203 

up  like  pillars  in  some  Dantean  temple  of  shades. 
Sometimes  a  group  of  wind-twisted  trees  showed 
weirdly  through  the  mist,  as  if  peering  up  from  un- 
der their  matted  thatches  of  foliage  in  dread  of  some 
portentous  stroke.  Every  canon  had  its  stream, 
filling  the  air  with  a  monotone  that  would  have  been 
ghostly  but  for  the  cheerful  notes  of  the  ouzels.  The 
presence  of  that  gay  little  water-sprite  is  as  genial 
as  August  sunshine. 

About  midday  the  fog  broke  away,  revealing, 
far  up  the  coast,  a  prominent  headland  which  I  set 
down  as  Point  Sur.  It  revealed  also  my  trail, 
stretching  like  a  pleated  ribbon  along  the  mountain, 
high  above  the  sea,  on  and  on  to  vanishing  point. 
At  the  head  of  one  of  the  canons  I  found  a  snug  little 
place  kept  by  two  old  bachelors  who  have  carved  out 
a  narrow  strip  of  ground  on  the  roof-like  slope  above 
the  creek.  I  stopped  for  a  rest  and  a  chat,  and  gained 
a  little  sidelight  on  the  conditions  of  life  along  this 
coast  from  the  three  piles  of  magazines,  each  reach- 
ing from  floor  to  ceiling  of  their  living-room,  or  about 
two  hundred  feet,  board  measure,  of  compressed  liter- 
ature, which  they  keep  for  reading-matter  in  winter, 
when  for  weeks  together  the  trails  may  be  impassable. 
At  the  mouth  of  this  canon  the  creek  makes  a 
spectacular  drop  direct  into  the  ocean,  like  some 
Norwegian  stream  falling  into  a  fiord. 

In  the  next  large  canon  there  was  a  huddle  of  de- 
cayed buildings  with  the  remains  of  an  orchard.  As 
there  was  fair  pasturage  I  resolved  to  camp,  a  special 


204        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

attraction  being  the  fine  redwoods  that  grew  along 
the  creek.  I  had  never  until  then  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  camp  among  these  trees,  though 
at  one  time  or  another  I  have  hobnobbed  with  al- 
most all  the  other  members  of  the  California  coni- 
fers, from  tide-water  to  timber-line.  I  unsaddled  at 
the  foot  of  a  genial-looking  monster,  picketed  Anton 
in  knee-high  wild  oats,  and  ate  my  supper  under  the 
eyes  of  a  covey  of  quail  that  perched  on  an  old  rail 
fence  near  by  and  discussed  me  in  almost  human 
tones.  The  occasion  justified  a  camp-fire  of  the  best, 
and  I  passed  a  long  evening  cheerful  with  reminis- 
cences of  bygone  nigljts  among  the  forests  of  the 
greater  California  Sierra. 

The  squirrels  and  jays  were  aroused  at  first  day- 
light by  the  smoke  of  my  breakfast-fire;  but  when 
we  were  ready  to  start,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
hardly  done  due  honor  to  my  first  redwood  camp, 
so  I  took  off  Anton's  saddle  and  smoked  a  couple 
more  leisurely  pipes.  Then  in  peaceful  mood  we 
set  out.  The  ocean  lay  under  the  usual  shroud  of 
fog,  but  on  our  high  path  the  sun  shone  warm  and 
bright,  and  the  morning  was  gay  with  birds  and  but- 
terflies. A  rattlesnake  that  was  out  for  an  early 
breakfast,  and  crossed  the  trail  in  front  of  us,  left 
his  body  to  the  buzzards  as  a  sarcastic  commentary 
on  the  adage  of  the  bird  and  the  worm.  Tracks  of 
deer  were  numerous  about  every  creek  and  spring, 
and  once,  when  we  had  just  crossed  the  trail  of  a 
mountain-lion,  Anton  became  so  excited  that  I  had 


SUPERB    TREES  205 

no  doubt  he  scented  the  animal  somewhere  close  at 
hand. 

The  redwoods  in  the  canons  were  finer  than  any  I 
had  yet  seen,  some  of  them  quite  wonderful  in  their 
straight,  stately  symmetry.  The  older  branches  of 
the  largest  trees  were  recurved,  and  hung  for  thirty 
or  forty  feet  close  about  the  stem.  In  places  the 
sun's  rays  could  hardly  pass  through  the  high  roof 
of  foliage,  and  I  moved  among  the  gray  and  purple 
pillars  subdued  to  "  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade," 
as  some  one  has  put  it.  Anton's  sensations  appar- 
ently took  the  same  hue.  His  pasturage  the  past 
night  had  not  been  over-luxurious,  and  he  neglected 
no  mouthful  of  verdure  that  came  in  his  way.  I 
wished  I  could  introduce  him  to  one  of  those  moun- 
tain meadows  where  in  former  years  I  had  often 
seen  my  animals  half  smothered  in  juicy  grasses. 

Late  afternoon  found  us  at  Castro's  Ranch,  a 
comfortable,  old-fashioned  place,  the  terminus  of 
wagon  travel  at  the  northern  end  of  the  Santa 
Lucias,  as  San  Simeon  is  at  the  southern.  The  dis- 
tance between  them  is  about  sixty  miles  in  an  air- 
line, but  must  be  two  or  three  times  as  much  in 
actual  travelling  distance  by  the  trails.  I  received 
a  genial  welcome  from  these  excellent  people,  and 
made  up  Anton's  arrears  of  hay  and  grain. 

Dogs,  cats,  and  geese  made  the  place  lively  with 
companionable  sounds,  and  an  orchard  of  peaches  and 
apples  formed  an  acceptable  incident.  I  was  lodged 
in  a  tiny,  white-curtained  room  opening  on  a  flowery 


206        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

jungle  of  garden,  and  at  supper  was  plied  with  veni- 
son, frijoles,  and  tortillas,  with  vegetable  adjuncts, 
to  which  I  had  long  been  a  stranger,  in  notable 
array. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

From  trail  to  road  —  The  Big  Sur  River  —  Canon  of  the  Little  Sur  — 
Point  Sur  lighthouse  —  A  Robinson  Crusoe  and  a  great  dis- 
covery in  mineralogy  —  Portuguese  friendliness  once  more  — 
The  perfection  of  coast  scenery  —  Point  Lobos  —  Cypresses  and 
pines  —  The  Mission  of  San  Carlos,  Carmel:  beauty  of  its  situa- 
tion: the  resting-place  of  Serra  —  Carmel-by-the-Sea  —  More 
delightful  coast  —  Wonderful  cypresses  —  Monterey,  the  old 
capital  of  California:  as  Dana  saw  it:  historic  objects:  the  Steven- 
son house:  whaling  days:  the  old  church. 

The  change  from  sidehill  trail  to  graded  road, 
agreeable  enough  to  Anton,  gave  me  some  re- 
grets as  implying  a  tamer  country.  For  the  first 
time  for  some  days  I  got  into  the  saddle  and  rode. 
The  morning  and  the  road  were  both  delicious.  A 
cool  air  came  from  the  sea,  which  we  now  left  out  of 
sight,  and  the  scents  from  bay,  redwood,  and  under- 
brush were  spicy  and  stimulating.  The  road  wound 
downward  between  the  wooded  ridge  that  shut  the 
ocean  from  sight  and  high,  steep  hills  of  yellowed 
grass,  slashed,  as  ever,  with  timbered  canons.  Un- 
welcome signs  of  what,  I  suppose,  we  must  call 
civilization,  began  to  occur  in  the  guise  of  warnings 
against  "hunting,  fishing,  or  camping  on  this  ranch." 
From  time  to  time  I  caught  the  sound  of  a  large 
stream  running  in  the  canon  below,  and  before  long 
we  dropped  into  the  valley  of  the  Big  Sur  River  and 
came  upon  a  little  Noah's  Ark  affair,  with  "Post- 


208        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

Office"  painted  upon  it.  This  place  has  long  been 
known  as  "  Post's,"  after  an  early  settler,  but  lately 
some  person  with  a  craving  for  change  has  persuaded 
the  authorities  to  rename  it  "Arbolado,"  a  mon- 
strosity of  mongrel  Spanish  of  which  the  depart- 
ment should  not  have  been  guilty.  From  here  a 
stage  runs  on  alternate  days  to  and  from  Monterey, 
twenty-five  miles  to  the  northward. 

For  five  charming  miles  the  road  accompanied  the 
stream  under  grateful  shade  of  redwoods  mottled 
with  golden  green  of  filtered  sunlight.  Then,  climb- 
ing in  long  curves,  it  opened  a  fine  view  of  the  valley 
of  the  Sur,  lying  open,  as  on  a  map,  the  stream  itself 
hidden  in  deep  forest  almost  to  where  a  bar  of  surf 
marked  its  meeting  with  the  ocean.  A  strong  wind 
was  blowing  from  the  water,  and  as  the  fog  broke 
away  from  time  to  time  the  warring  white-clawed 
waves  could  be  seen  far  out  at  sea.  Near  by,  and 
on  my  left,  stood  the  lonely  rock  of  Point  Sur,  its 
summit  hidden  in  mists;  and  on  the  other  side  rose 
a  striking  white  mountain  called  Pico  Blanco,  the 
second  highest  point  of  the  range.  It  looked  strangely 
white,  almost  as  though  it  were  snow-covered,  against 
the  blue  of  the  eastern  sky.  From  north  and  west, 
masses  of  gray  sea-wrack  came  driving  every  mo- 
ment in  imposing  volume,  and,  encountering  some 
opposing  air  current,  maintained  a  sullen  battle 
among  the  hills. 

Descending  the  steep  grade  we  entered  the  beauti- 
ful canon  of  the  Little  Sur,  where,  to  my  surprise,  I 


CANON    OF    THE    LITTLE    SUR      209 

found  a  mountain  hotel  and  a  "resort"  of  tents  on 
the  bank  of  the  river.  The  place  was  deserted  by  the 
summer  visitors,  for  September  had  now  begun ;  but 
hay  was  there,  and  I  judged  it  best  to  stay  for  the 
night,  for  fodder  was  now  the  matter  of  first  import- 
ance in  my  calculations. 

I  devoted  the  rest  of  the  day  to  a  visit  to  the  light- 
house at  the  Point,  five  miles  away.  The  afternoon 
was  delightful,  with  a  clear  sun  and  a  Kiplingesque 
sort  of  wind ;  and  Anton,  relieved  for  once  of  impedi- 
ments, bethought  himself  of  his  Arizona  youth,  and 
was  bent  upon  rounding  up  all  the  cattle  he  saw  on 
the  hillsides.  The  ocean  was  of  a  splendid,  windy 
purple,  though  far  to  seaward  the  fog  lay  furled 
along  the  horizon  in  a  band  of  pearly  gray.  Quail 
whistled  in  the  brushy  gullies,  and  overhead  the 
gulls  strained  and  screamed  against  the  wind. 

A  little  black  steamer  was  shouldering  her  way 
doggedly  up  coast,  the  white  water  churning  by  her 
sides  and  the  smoke  tearing  away  from  her  funnels 
as  she  fought  her  way  along.  I  suppose  that  Ruskin, 
in  his  quaint  dogmatism,  would  not  have  included 
the  smoky  little  bull-dog  in  his  eulogy  of  the  Sea- 
Boat,  but  it  seemed  to  me  to  show  all  the  dutiful 
hardihood  that  roused  his  admiration,  "baring  its 
breast,  moment  after  moment,  against  the  un- 
wearied enmity  of  ocean;  thesubtle,  fitful,  implacable 
smiting  of  the  black  waves,  provoking  each  other 
on  endlessly,  .  .  .  still  striking  them  back  into  a 
wreath  of  smoke  and  futile  foam,  and  winning  its 


210        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

way  against  them,  and  keeping  its  charge  of  life  from 
them." 

The  Point  is  an  abrupt  rock  connected  with  the 
shore  by  an  isthmus  of  sand.  A  narrow  path  cut  in 
the  rock  leads  up  to  the  lighthouse  buildings.  Anton 
was  excited  when  he  saw  the  surf  crashing  below 
him,  and  gazed  from  it  to  me  with  an  "I  say,  you 
know ! ' '  kind  of  expression  that  was  comically  human. 
I  was  kindly  received  by  the  lighthouse  folk,  and 
shown  over  their  spick-and-span  domain.  The 
light,  which  is  a  powerful  one  of  the  "first  order," 
stands  two  hundred  and  forty  feet  above  the  water, 
—  rather  too  high,  I  was  told,  since  at  that  height  the 
fog  is  more  frequent  and  dense  than  nearer  the  sur- 
face. 

In  the  course  of  a  walk  up  the  stream  next  morn- 
ing, I  came  upon  an  original  who  for  many  years  has 
lived  a  Robinson  Crusoe  life  in  a  coign  high  up  on 
the  canon  wall.  His  ramshackle  dwelling  was  more 
shed  than  house,  and  I  found  the  ancient  himself 
seated  beside  it,  in  a  rather  alarming  state  of  undress, 
under  the  shelter  of  an  umbrella  which  he  had  hung 
obliquely  from  the  roof  to  intercept  the  morning 
sun.  With  his  bright  blue  eyes,  skin  originally  ruddy 
but  now  tanned  to  Indian  hue,  and  shock  of  long 
white  hair,  he  made  a  most  odd  appearance. 

He  was  talking  to  himself  as  I  approached,  but 
hailed  me  hospitably  to  come  in  and  sit  down  for  a 
chat.  The  chatting  was  a  passive  affair  on  my  side, 
for  he  himself  did  not  cease  talking  for  a  moment, 


GREAT  DISCOVERY  IN  MINERALOGY     211 

and  after  one  or  two  vain  attempts  to  stop  him,  I  only 
sat  and  listened.  His  great  topic  was  minerals,  con- 
cerning which  he  had  a  theory,  new  to  me,  that  every 
metal  has  a  father  and  a  mother.  This  great  dis- 
covery had  been  revealed  to  him  by  an  old  Indian 
woman,  once  of  these  parts,  who  had  bequeathed 
him  a  "map,"  by  which,  he  declared,  he  was  able 
to  make  his  theory  effective.  To  discount  the  pal- 
pable discrepancy  between  his  apparently  poor  cir- 
cumstances and  his  potential  wealth,  he  explained 
that  he  cared  nothing  for  actual  money,  being  con- 
tent with  knowing  that  he  could  at  any  time  procure 
it:  a  philosophy  which,  as  he  appeared  to  hold  it 
sincerely,  was  an  admirable  one,  and  worthy  to  be 
recommended  to  our  captains  of  finance. 

The  wind  blew  more  strongly  after  sundown,  and 
tassels  of  foliage  from  the  redwoods  overhead  came 
thumping  all  night  on  the  tent  in  which  I  slept.  It 
was  blowing  half  a  gale  when  in  the  morning  we  took 
the  road,  which,  after  crossing  the  Little  Sur  River, 
climbed  a  long  rise  that  brought  us  again  into  com- 
pany with  the  sea. 

The  birds  had  collected  in  the  sheltered  canons,  and 
their  unusual  numbers  made  those  parts  of  the  way 
specially  attractive.  So  steep  were  the  sides  of  some 
of  the  canons  that  where  the  road  ran  high  up  on  the 
wall,  I  could  look  down  upon  the  tops  of  the  red- 
woods close  below  me  as  if  I  were  an  aviator;  and 
the  scent  that  came  up  from  the  forest  was  such  as 
(to  speak  it  humbly)  I  hope  to  find  in  heaven. 


212         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

In  one  canon  I  found  a  school-house,  the  first  I 
had  passed  for  a  week,  and  a  post-office  named  Sur. 
The  latter  gave  no  token  of  its  use,  for  mail-boxes  and 
sign-board  had  gone  out  to  sea  together  during  the 
winter  rains.  When  I  learned  that  the  stream  was 
Mill  Creek,  I  wondered  how  many  more  of  that  name 
I  was  to  meet.  I  think  Mill  Creeks  in  California 
could  be  numbered  by  the  score. 

All  day  the  road  wound  along  a  rocky  shore,  beside 
a  bright  sea  broken  by  surf-ringed  islets  and  the  glis- 
tening fringe  of  kelp  that  lies  for  league  on  league 
unbroken  along  this  coast.  To  landward  still  rose  the 
monotonous  drab  hills  sprinkled  with  gray  sage- 
bushes  or  grayer  outcroppings  of  rock.  At  long  in- 
tervals, stark-looking  ranch-houses  appeared,  but 
there  was  little  travel  on  the  road,  and  the  human 
voice  was  still  a  rarity  to  the  ear.  Wreaths  of  fog 
came  drifting  in  now  and  then  from  the  sea,  and 
the  faint  coughing  of  the  syren  at  Point  Sur,  miles 
in  the  rear,  seemed  to  add  to  the  loneliness  of  the 
scene. 

On  rounding  a  bend  I  saw  the  hills  before  me 
crested  darkly  with  pines.  Even  at  three  miles' 
distance  their  vigorous  manner  of  growth  marked 
them  as  of  the  radiata  species,  and  I  knew  by  that 
token  that  we  were  coming  to  the  neighborhood  of 
Monterey,  where,  almost  alone,  the  tree  is  native. 

It  was  nearing  sundown,  and  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  camp  among  them,  but  again  the  necessity 
of  fodder  forbade,  and  I  turned  in  at  the  next  ranch 


PORTUGUESE    FRIENDLINESS         213 

to  inquire  the  prospects  for  a  night's  lodging.  The 
Portuguese  woman  received  me  kindly  and  found 
me  a  bed  in  a  little  outhouse.  The  husband  was 
away,  but  five  jolly  children  took  possession  of  me 
with  such  enthusiasm  that  it  was  evident  that  a  visi- 
tor was  regarded  as  a  prize  of  the  first  degree.  In 
five  minutes  Avelino  was  on  my  back,  Ernesto  and 
Braulio  were  punching  me  jovially,  Angeles  of  the 
soft  brown  eyes  was  filling  my  hands  with  her  best- 
beloved  flowers,  and  fat  Jos6  was  planning  a  rescue 
in  order  to  show  me  a  phenomenal  (arrow  of  pigs. 
Supper  was  an  uproarious  event,  and  afterwards  the 
whole  Lattery  of  phonograph  records  was  ground  off 
for  my  delight. 

I  left  them  next  morning  while  the  boys  were 
milking  the  herd  of  thirty  cows,  and  dear  little 
Angeles,  in  enormous  sunbonnet  and  gloves,  >kir- 
mished  about  waiting  to  carry  tin-  pails  to  the  milk- 
house.  It  was  a  superlative  morning,  with  neither 
wind  nor  fog.  The  first  hint  of  autumn  was  abroad 
in  -.  >me  elusive  fashion,  though  in  brilliancy  the  day 
was  more  like  May  than  September.  'The  sea  was  a 
splendor  of  deep  Mediterranean  blue,  and  brol 
such  dazzling  freshness  of  white  that  one  might  have 
thoughl  it  had  been  that  day  created.  Ho*  amazing 
it  is,  that  the  ancienl  ocean,  with  it^  age-long  -tain 

of  cities  and   traffic,   t<»il  and  blood,  ran  >till   I 

bright,  s<>  uncontaminated,  so  heavenly  pure!  It 
Beems  an  intentional  parable  of  Divinity,  knowing 
and  receiving  all,  evil  a-  well  a-  good,  yet  through 


214        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

some  deathless  principle  itself  remaining  forever 
right,  strong,  and  pure,  the  Unchanging  Good. 

Pines  grew  here  along  the  cliff,  outlining  with 
tawny  stem  and  dark  magnificence  of  foliage  the 
most  exquisite  of  vistas.  The  coast  was  broken  by 
little  bays  full  of  brown  seaweed  that  rose  and  fell 
indolently  with  the  slow  breathing  of  the  sea.  Islets 
were  scattered  along  as  if  they  had  been  dropped 
like  pebbles  out  of  a  full  hand.  I  do  not  think  there 
can  be  anywhere  on  our  shores  a  more  enchanting 
piece  of  coast  than  this  and  the  next  ten  miles  to  the 
north.  It  is  the  acme  of  what  is  generally  named 
the  romantic  in  sea  scenery,  and  is  calculated,  I 
should  think,  to  throw  an  artist  into  a  frenzy  in 
which  he  would  paint  one  final  and  conscious  master- 
piece, then  close  color-box,  camp-stool,  and  umbrella, 
and  hurl  them  all  over  the  cliff  together. 

Noon  found  us  at  Point  Lobos.  It  is  a  superb 
headland  overgrown  with  pines  and  cypresses  that 
lean  in  perilous  balance  over  the  crashing  sea,  or 
stand  statuesquely  on  rocky  ledges,  ideally  pictorial. 
The  cypresses  are  monarchical  fellows,  wonderful  in 
size  and  evident  age,  and  Lear-like  in  their  storm- 
thrawn  attitudes.  Like  the  pines,  they  are  strict 
natives  of  this  locality,  and  give  a  unique  charm  to 
this  delightful  coast.  By  their  manner  of  growth 
they  reminded  me  of  the  monumental  yews  of  Eng- 
lish churchyards;  and,  indeed,  there  is  much  of  the 
same  solemnity  in  their  gnarled  stems,  far-reaching, 
bony  arms,  and  rich  but  gloomy  foliage. 


THE    MISSION    OF    SAN    CARLOS    215 

I  was  courteously  entertained  at  lunch  by  the 
owner  of  the  ranch  which  includes  this  enviable 
piece  of  coast,  and  then  pursued  my  way,  soon  cross- 
ing a  bridge  over  the  wide,  shallow  stream  called  the 
Carmel.  A  beautiful  valley  here  opens  inland.  I 
had  long  wished  to  explore  it,  as  well  as  to  try  my 
flies  on  the  river,  which  has  a  good  reputation  among 
fishermen.  But  Anton  was  badly  in  need  of  a  black- 
smith, now  near  at  hand,  and  I  decided  to  keep  the 
road  towards  Monterey. 

A  turn  brought  me  to  the  Mission  of  San  Carlos, 
generally  known  as  Carmel,  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  interesting  of  all  the  Missions.  There  is  a 
peculiar  beauty  in  the  simple,  rather  heavy  building 
that  I  could  not  easily  explain  to  myself.  I  think  it 
lies  in  the  perfect  balance  which  has  been  kept  be- 
tween solidity  and  ornament.  The  tower  is  a  model 
of  proportion,  and  the  facade  is  only  broken  by  one 
star  window  of  simple  but  beautiful  design.  The  star 
is  a  little  out  of  the  symmetrical,  as  is  also  the  cupola 
of  the  tower,  but  the  variation  is  too  slight  to  be 
jarring,  and,  if  anything,  adds  a  pleasing  and  hu- 
mane touch  to  the  modest  building,  as  a  token  of  the 
artless  sincerity  of  the  poorly  skilled  workmen. 

Situation  is  another  clement  of  its  charm.  Tran- 
quil hills,  clouded  here  and  there  with  pines,  rise 
on  two  sides;  a  peaceful  river  flows  silently  by;  and  at 
a  little  distance  lies  the  blue  and  golden  curve  of  the 
bay,  broken  by  flash  of  surf  where  the  tide  is  leaping 
on  the  river-bar.  The  only  houses  in  sight  are  a  quiet 


216        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

farm  and  the  little  flowery  dwelling  of  the  Mexican 
who  acts  as  caretaker. 

In  the  church  the  body  of  Junipero  Serra  himself 
lies  buried  near  the  altar,  with  those  of  three  of  his 
comrades.  A  tablet  on  the  wall  above  commemorates 
them  thus :  — 

Hie  jacent  exuviae 

Adm.  Rev.  Patris 

Juniperi  Serra 

O.  S.  F. 

Missionum  Californiae  fundatoris 

ac  Praesidis 

in  pace  depositae 

die  XXVIII  mensis  augusti 

A.  D.  M.D.CCLXXXIV 

atque  sociorum  ejus 

R.  R.  P.  P. 

Johannis  Crespi 

Juliani  Lopez 

et 

Francisci  Lasuen 

Requiescant  in  pace. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  pleasant  spot  to  be  the  resting- 
place  of  the  weary  old  priest.  Swallows  were  weaving 
all  about  the  place,  and  had  built  against  the  painted 
windows  above  the  grave.  Their  eager  little  voices 
filled  the  air,  and  came  mingled  with  the  dreamy 
iteration  of  the  surf.  For  a  moment  I  was  in  Assisi, 
an  auditor  of  St.  Francis,  "the  Jongleur  of  the  Lord," 
and  of  his  little  brother  jongleurs. 

From  here,  half  an  hour  brought  us  to  Carmel-by- 


CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA  217 

the-Sea,  where  I  tasted  the  luxury  of  a  comfortable 
hotel,  while  a  livery-stable  received  my  good  Anton. 
The  village  is  pleasantly  rural,  with  its  houses  scat- 
tered through  a  pine  wood  that  slopes  to  a  beach  of 
whitest  sand.  It  is  a  notable  place  of  residence  for 
artists  and  university  dons  from  Stanford  and  Berke- 
ley, and  one  is  conscious  of  a  mildly  Bohemian,  or 
scholastico-artistic  air.  Carmel  certainly  has  an 
unusual  range  of  attractions:  its  own  happy  situa- 
tion, the  exceptional  beauty  of  the  adjacent  coast, 
a  soft  and  equable  climate,  and  facilities  for  a  variety 
of  sports.  And  over  all  there  hangs  a  tinge  of  ro- 
mance from  the  neighborhood  of  Monterey,  the 
capital  of  the  Spanish  and  Mexican  California  of  no 
very  long  time  ago. 

I  might  have  been  in  Monterey  in  an  hour  from 
Carmel  by  crossing  the  neck  of  the  Monterey  penin- 
sula. But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  miss  any  part 
of  this  enchanting  coast,  so  next  morning  I  took  the 
road  that  follows  the  shore.  This  is  part  of  the  re- 
nowned Seventeen- Mile  Drive  which  figures  on  the 
itinerary  of  California  tourists,  and  its  fame  is  cer- 
tainly justified.  In  its  fine  grouping  of  the  beautiful 
and  striking  elements  the  scenery  might  really  be 
called  classic;  and,  indeed,  I  doubt  whether  it  could 
be  surpassed,  unless  in  Greece  or  Italy. 

The  shore-line  is  ideally  broken  and  wonderfully 
rich  in  color;  the  water  a  play  of  emerald  and  sap- 
phire hues  breaking  momentarily  in  sudden  blaze 
of  surf,  or  shaded  to  deeper  tones  by  the  brown  sea- 


218        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

banners  of  the  kelp.  Promontory  and  cliff  are 
peopled  with  fantastic  forms  of  pine  and  cypress, 
sumptuous  in  sombre  green  or  shagged  with  gray 
pennons  of  moss.  Once  the  road  ran  for  a  mile  or 
two  under  a  deep  cypress  arbor,  a  green  and  brown 
tunnel  lighted  dimly  by  windows  that  opened  on 
brilliant  seas,  and  echoing  with  cadence  of  surf  and 
scream  of  roving  gull. 

Many  of  the  trees  lie  prone  on  the  brown  floor, 
mere  tumbles  of  mossy  green.  Others  are  amorphous 
monsters  with  huge  rheumatic  knees  and  elbows, 
gray  as  the  very  bones  of  Time.  At  Cypress  Point, 
the  outer  headland  of  the  peninsula,  where  winds 
career  most  wildly,  the  gaunt  wardens  of  the  cliff 
have  been  torn,  twisted,  hunched,  wrenched,  bat- 
tered, and  hammered  to  the  limit  of  tree  resemblance. 
They  make  a  Homeric-looking  company,  and  tell 
a  stirring  tale  of  battle  with 

"...  every  gust  of  rugged  winds 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory." 

Beyond  Cypress  Point  the  shore  falls  to  dunes  of 
white  sand,  splashed  with  creeping  sea-herbage,  and 
trending  northeasterly  to  Point  Pinos,  at  the  south- 
ern horn  of  Monterey  Bay.  Inland  the  ground  rises 
wooded  everywhere  with  pines;  and  it  was  deep 
pleasure  to  ride  slowly  along,  hour  after  hour,  in 
that  fine  companionship;  on  one  hand  the  comfort- 
able sigh  of  forest,  on  the  other  the  long,  solitary 
surge  of  the  Pacific. 


MONTEREY  219 

By  evening  we  were  entering  the  pretty  seaside 
town  of  Pacific  Grove.  The  tolling  of  a  train-bell 
sounded  strangely  in  my  ears,  for  we  had  parted 
company  with  locomotives  at  San  Luis  Obispo, 
several  weeks  before.  As  we  passed  the  Military 
Reservation  the  sunset  gun  boomed  from  the  Pre- 
sidio, whereat  Anton  performed  first  a  spectacular 
jump  and  then  a  little  pas  seul  which  furnished  some 
excitement  for  the  smart  soldier  boys. 

Complicated  odors  of  fish  and  antiquity  met  us  as 
we  entered  Monterey,  where  the  street-cars  wrought 
Anton's  nerves  to  a  point  of  desperation.  I  piloted 
him  by  back  ways  to  a  stable,  and  found  myself  a 
lodging  at  the  house  of  a  charming  Spanish  lady  to 
whom  I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  from  my 
good  friends  at  Lompoc. 

Monterey  forms  almost  a  compendium  of  the  his- 
tory of  California.  It  was  only  half  a  century  after 
the  first  voyage  of  Columbus  that  Juan  Rodriguez 
Cabrillo  sailed  into  the  bay,  and  the  first  civilized 
anchor  dropped  into  its  quiet  waters.  Sixty  years 
later  came  Sebastian  Vizcaino,  and  claimed  the  soil 
for  Spain,  giving  the  port  the  name  of  his  patron, 
the  Count  of  Monte  Rey,  then  Viceroy  of  Mexico. 
That  would  be  in  1602,  five  years  before  the  James- 
town settlement  was  made  on  the  other  coast ;  and 
from  that  time  down  to  the  end  of  Mexico's  owner- 
ship, Monterey  remained  the  capital  of  the  province 
of  Alta  California. 

Dana  gives  a  picture  of  the  town  as  he  saw  it  in 


220        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

1835,  towards  the  end  of  the  old  regime:  —  "The 
pretty  lawn  on  which  it  stands,  as  green  as  sun  and 
rain  could  make  it ;  the  pine  wood  on  the  south ;  the 
small  river  on  the  north  side ;  the  houses,  with  their 
white  plastered  sides  and  red  tiled  roofs,  dotted 
about  on  the  green ;  the  low  white  presidio  with  its 
soiled  tri-colored  flag  flying,  and  the  discordant  din 
of  drums  and  trumpets  for  the  noon  parade." 

Much  of  the  air  of  its  early  days  still  pervades  the 
place,  and  makes  it  in  a  way  the  most  interesting 
town  in  California.  The  green  lawn  has  gone,  but 
many  of  the  low  adobe  houses  remain,  and  a  good 
part  of  the  population  is  Spanish  or  Mexican  still; 
and  my  hostess,  Dona  Carmelita,  herself  a  resident 
of  Monterey  from  girlhood,  has  not  a  few  compatriots 
with  whom  to  talk  over  the  old,  gay,  easy  days  that 
lingered  here  long  after  the  rest  of  California  had 
become  charged  with  American  energy.  Monterey, 
and  not  the  Mission  Dolores  in  San  Francisco,  as 
Bret  Harte  expected,  seems  "destined  to  be  'The 
Last  Sigh'  of  the  native  Calif ornian." 

Many  of  the  buildings  are  ticketed  with  some 
legend  to  attract  the  interest  of  tourists.  Generally 
a  claim  to  being  the  first  or  the  last  of  their  kind  or 
purpose  in  the  State  is  the  theme.  Here  is  the  first 
brick  house,  and  here  the  first  one  built  of  lumber. 
That  low  shady  house  was  the  home  of  Governor 
Alvarado,  one  of  the  last  governors  of  the  Mexican 
province ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  street  that  bears 
his  name  is  the  Custom-House,  where,  on  the  7th  of 


THE   STEVENSON    HOUSE  221 

July,  1846,  the  flag  of  the  United  States  took  the 
place  of  that  which  Dana  saw  flying.  Near  by  is  the 
first  theatre,  and  on  the  hill  is  a  large  frame  building 
which  served  as  the  first  State  Capitol. 

A  ramshackle  wooden  house  on  a  side  street  hoists 
the  sign,  "R.  Stevenson  House."  I  was  not  sorry 
to  find  that  the  authenticity  of  this  particular  relic 
was  denied  by  my  hostess,  who  declared  that  Steven- 
son was  merely  an  occasional  visitor  at  the  house  in 
question,  and  that  he  lived  in  a  house  (now  pulled 
down)  adjoining  the  one  which  professes  to  have 
been  occupied  by  the  last  American  Consul,  Thomas 
O.  Larkin.  As  circumstantial  evidence,  the  senora 
confessed  how  she  and  others  of  the  vivacious  dam- 
sels of  Monterey  used  to  watch,  from  the  windows 
of  the  opposite  house,  where  she  lived,  Stevenson, 
Keith  the  painter,  and  other  cronies  as  they  smoked 
and  joked  on  the  veranda  of  the  Larkin  house. 

It  must  go  hard  with  every  lover  of  the  gentle 
Scot  to  think  of  him  as  inhabiting  that  other  dismal 
shell,  the  ugliest  house,  I  think,  in  all  Monterey.  I 
looked  in  at  some  of  the  windows,  and  saw  only  bare 
whitewashed  rooms  with  broken  walls  and  floors. 
There  was  a  notable  debris  of  empty  bottles,  and  in 
one  room  it  seemed  that  some  conscience-stricken 
carouser  had  sought  to  dispose  of  his  incriminating 
evidence  by  stuffing  it  under  the  flooring,  whence  tin- 
necks  of  more  bottles  protruded  in  a  waggish  fashi<  >n, 
as  though  they  were  "  tipping  the  wink"  to  the  spec- 
tator.  At  one  end  of  the  house  an  outside  stairway 


222        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

led  to  the  upper  floor.  At  the  other  was  a  square  of 
garden  ground,  in  a  corner  of  which  a  few  nasturtiums 
and  stalks  of  mint  grew  in  a  secret  and  furtive  man- 
ner. Over  all  there  ruled  a  quaint,  olden  odor,  rare 
in  this  country,  which  oddly  reminded  me  of  Eng- 
lish almshouses. 

In  a  walk  about  the  outskirts  of  the  town  I  came 
upon  the  old  church,  often  called  the  Mission,  of 
San  Carlos.  Having  always  been  the  parish  church 
of  Monterey,  it  escaped  the  ruin  that  fell  upon  its 
sisters,  and  is  to-day,  at  the  age  of  nearly  a  hundred 
and  twenty  years,  a  handsome,  solid  building.  I 
was  struck  by  the  strange  appearance  of  the  pave- 
ment of  the  courtyard,  which  was  laid  with  circular 
blocks  of  some  whitish  material  that  was  like,  and 
yet  unlike,  stone.  They  proved  to  be  the  vertebrae 
of  whales,  and  reminded  me  that  Monterey  had  once 
a  whaling  industry  of  some  importance.  Near  the 
bay  I  found  a  building  which  was  formerly  the  office 
of  the  Monterey  Whaling  Company.  The  last  of  the 
old  whaling-men  of  Monterey  may  still  be  seen  haunt- 
ing the  water-front,  and  in  the  marine-store  you 
may  see  a  bomb-gun  awaiting  the  purchaser  who 
will  never  appear.  On  the  bay,  the  mixture  of  dories, 
lateen-sailed  fishing-craft,  steam-launches,  and  glass- 
bottomed  observation  boats  from  which  tourists 
may  spy  out  the  wonders  of  Davy  Jones's  locker, 
mark  the  intermingling  of  the  old  and  the  newer  in- 
terests. 

It  was  evening  as  I  walked  again  up  the  long  street. 


THE  OLD   CHURCH   OF  SAN   CARLOS   223 

As  I  passed  along,  I  encountered  now  a  tinkle  of 
mandolins,  now  an  odor  of  Spanish  cookery  and  roses 
tangled  together,  quite  unspeakable.  Children  played 
in  the  cypress-shaded  gardens,  or  sat  at  the  doors  of 
the  hunchbacked  adobes  with  their  fathers  and 
mothers.  On  a  side  street  a  modern  wooden  church 
with  a  painful  spire  was  lighted  up,  probably  for 
choir  practice.  Protestant  as  I  am,  I  turned  away 
and  walked  again  past  the  old  Catholic  Mission.  The 
last  swallows  were  wheeling  home,  and  the  sparrows 
in  the  ivy  were  sleepily  querulous.  The  fading  light 
lingered  on  the  crumbling  cornices,  and  the  tile- 
capped  belfry  rose  peacefully  into  the  clear  dusk  of 
the  sky.   After  all,  age  is  a  kind  of  sacrament. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  change  of  scenery  —  The  Salinas  River  —  Castroville  —  Moss 
Landing  —  Trees:  and  whitewash  —  A  jocund  cavalier  —  Wat- 
sonville,  metropolis  of  apples  —  Aptos:  why  Aptos?  —  The  city 
of  Santa  Cruz  —  Another  inland  divergence  —  Ox-teams  —  The 
Santa  Cruz  redwoods,  "dedicated"  to  triviality  —  Ben  Lomond: 
a  catechism  —  The  California  Redwood  Park:  redwoods  com- 
pared with  the  Big  Trees  —  A  forest  trail  —  Again  at  the  coast  — 
Pigeon  Point  —  Pescadero:  a  bibulous  banker. 

To  strike  the  direct  road  to  the  north  on  leaving 
Monterey,  I  took  a  short  cut  through  the 
grounds  of  the  Hotel  del  Monte,  where  my  dress  and 
equipment,  now  showing  the  wear  and  stains  of 
four  months'  travel,  seemed  to  arouse  the  amaze- 
ment, and  perhaps  the  indignation,  of  the  "idle 
rich."  Then,  after  passing  the  embryo  city  of  Sea- 
side, where  Avenues  and  Broadways  had  been  laid 
off  in  readiness  for  a  handsome  population,  we  took 
the  "sand-hills"  road  near  the  coast.  Instead  of  the 
cliffs  and  canons  of  the  Coast  Range,  a  low  expanse 
of  brush-land  now  lay  to  the  east.  On  my  left  was 
the  wide  bay  of  Monterey,  blue  as  the  word  can 
mean,  backed  by  faint  purple  mountains  where  it 
curved  round  to  the  north. 

The  day  was  hot  and  the  road  tedious,  and  so 
heavy  that  I  dismounted  and  led  Anton,  to  save 
him  my  weight.  The  sea  was  soon  barred  from  sight 


THE   SALINAS    RIVER  225 

by  dunes  of  sand,  but  hour  after  hour  its  soft  thun- 
der accompanied  us  as  we  toiled  along  a  road  deep 
in  sand  and  through  a  dry  and  almost  uninhabited 
country.  At  noon  we  stopped  for  an  hour  by  a  pool 
of  brackish  water,  with  a  fringe  of  long  grass  which 
was  a  bonanza  to  Anton,  for  he  had  long  been  a 
stranger  to  that  kind  of  forage. 

About  mid-afternoon  I  guessed  by  the  increasing 
roar  that  we  were  approaching  the  mouth  of  the 
Salinas  River,  and  in  due  time  we  crossed  the  bridge 
over  the  wide  green  stream  a  mile  or  so  above  the 
bar,  on  which  a  great  surf  was  breaking.  Just  ahead 
lay  the  little  town  of  Castroville,  planted  handily  in 
the  neck  of  the  Salinas  Valley.  From  this  vantage- 
point  I  had  a  fine  view  all  up  the  long,  straight  val- 
ley which  lies  between  the  range  of  the  Santa  Lucia, 
bordering  the  coast,  and  the  inner  Coast  Range 
which  divides  the  valley  of  the  Salinas  from  the 
San  Joaquin,  the  great  central  valley  of  California. 

Here  I  was  again  in  a  land  of  farms.  The  country 
had  a  rich  appearance;  cars  of  beets  stood  on  the 
railway  tracks,  destined  to  a  sugar  factory  a  few  miles 
distant,  and  the  threshers  were  busy  with  the  late 
barley. 

The  inland  heat  was  rather  trying,  ami  I  deter- 
mined to  make  for  Moss  Landing,  on  the  coa>t.  a 
few  miles  away.  Following  the  directions  of  an  old 
man  whose  confident  manner  imposed  on  me,  I  left 
Castroville  on  the  right,  and  turned  into  a  road  that 
seemed  to  lead  directly  there.    After  following  it  for 


226        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

a  couple  of  miles,  Anton  pretty  tired  and  eyeing 
every  barn  and  gateway  with  anxiety,  the  road 
came  to  an  end,  and  a  wide  slough,  quite  impassable, 
barred  the  way.  With  hearty  blessings  on  that  old 
gentleman  we  returned  to  Castroville,  and  took  the 
main  road,  arriving  at  the  village  of  Moss  Landing 
long  after  dark.  It  took  my  utmost  arguments  to 
persuade  the  hotel-keeper  to  get  me  supper  of 
bread,  beef,  and  tepid  coffee.  The  place  had  just 
been  thrown  into  excitement  by  the  arrival  of  a  har- 
vester crew  of  eighteen  or  twenty  men,  who  kept 
up  a  sort  of  stage  procession  as  they  circulated 
through  the  saloon.  Fraternal  squads  passed  in 
hurriedly,  to  emerge  in  two  or  three  minutes  with 
impressive  wiping  of  lips.  A  few  moments  sufficed 
to  change  the  composition  of  the  groups,  and  they 
lurched  in  again  with  a  fresh  access  of  thirst. 

Morning  showed  that  Moss  Landing  possesses 
wharves  and  other  facilities  of  commerce,  and  I 
found  that  a  good  deal  of  grain  and  other  farm  pro- 
duce is  shipped  from  this  little  place.  For  the  rest, 
I  gather  that  in  winter  it  is  a  main  resort  of  duck 
hunters.  The  landlord  told  me  that  he  often  shot 
ducks  from  his  back  door,  which  there  was  no  reason 
to  doubt,  since  a  family  of  them  were  peacefully 
quacking  fifteen  feet  away  from  the  table  at  which 
I  was  eating  breakfast. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  sunny  but  cool.  The  road 
led  among  placid  lagoons,  where  platoons  of  sea- 
fowl  were  manoeuvring,  and  old  boats  lay  moored 


A    JOCUND    CAVALIER  227 

at  oozy  landing-stages.  Groves  of  eucalyptus  gave 
off  their  finest  scents  after  the  dewy  night;  and  the 
mountains  to  the  north  were  now  near  enough  to 
show  the  timber  on  their  crest,  —  that  sight  always 
so  refreshing  and  delightful.  Trees  in  park  or  garden 
are  good,  for  trees  are  always  good:  trees  on  open 
plain  are  better:  but  trees  on  a  mountain  sky-line 
seem  to  me  to  make  the  acme  of  charm  in  natural 
scenery. 

The  people  of  this  region  are  strong  on  that  ex- 
cellent thing,  whitewash.  The  farmhouses  gleamed 
like  patches  of  snow  against  the  brown  hills,  and  the 
roadside  cottages  were  whitened  to  ultra-whiteness, 
and  made  the  prettiest  of  pictures  with  their  gar- 
dens of  blazing  nasturtiums  and  geraniums,  —  al- 
ways a  charming  combination  in  connection  with 
whitewash,  suggesting  contentment,  pinafores,  bread 
and  milk,  and  such  wholesome,  childlike  things. 

At  a  rise  of  the  ground  I  came  in  sight  of  a  brother 
horseman  who  was  riding  toward  me.  He  was  sing- 
ing, and  loudly,  too,  but  ceased  when  he  saw  me. 
Now,  why  must  he  do  that?  How  delightful  it  would 
be  if  only  this  confounded  mock-modesty  could  bi- 
got rid  of!  —  if  he  and  I,  for  instance,  could  have 
met  unabashed,  each  trolling  out  our  "Hey  nonny, 
nonny,"  or  whatever  it  might  be,  with  no  silly 
thought  of  looking  silly,  but,  instead,  just  some 
courteous  gesture  of  appreciation  or  word  of  ap- 
plause. But  no;  we  must  only  pass  our  dull  "( lood- 
morning,  sir,"  and  "How  do  you  do,  sir?"  and    go 


228        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

on  our  ways.    I  heard  him  break  out  again,  though, 
as  soon  as  he  knew  my  back  was  turned. 

Some  hours  of  easy  riding  (in  the  course  of  which 
I  crossed  into  the  next  county,  Santa  Cruz)  brought 
me  to  the  valley  of  the  Pajaro,  here  a  slow-winding, 
reedy  stream.  By  noon  we  were  at  Watsonville,  the 
California  metropolis  of  apples.  Certain  peculiari- 
ties of  soil  and  climate  in  this  valley  combine  to  favor 
this  particular  crop,  but  much  is  due  also  to  an  ele- 
ment of  European  thoroughness.  The  careful,  old- 
fashioned  methods  of  a  colony  of  Dalmatians  who 
settled  here  many  years  ago  have  brought  the  in- 
dustry to  such  success  that,  in  California,  to  hear 
of  apples  is  to  think  of  Watsonville.  I  was  told  that 
the  bulk,  and  the  best,  of  the  orchards  lay  along 
the  foothills  to  the  north;  but  I  rode  through  mile 
on  mile  of  prosperous  groves,  where  harvest  was 
just  beginning;  and  wagons  in  long  procession  passed 
me  loaded  with  fragrant  boxes  bound  for  the  railway. 

After  passing  a  small  village  formerly  known  as 
"Whiskey  Hill,"  but  now  decorously  named  "Free- 
dom," the  road  began  to  enter  the  hills,  and  soon 
redwoods  and  spruces  appeared.  Pretty  mountain 
orchards  clung  to  the  hillsides,  the  thrifty  vines  and 
fruit  trees  running  up  to  meet  the  timber  and  moun- 
tain brush.  Bracken  grew  along  the  roadside, 
mingled  with  wild  oats  and  yellow  autumn  flowers; 
and  my  spirits  rose  automatically,  as  they  always 
do,  at  the  prospect  of  mountains  and  forests.  The 
long,  steep  road  was  not  too  long  for  me,  though 


THE    CITY    OF    SANTA    CRUZ        229 

Anton's  pace  was  jaded,  and  dark  had  fallen  before 
we  reached  our  quarters  for  the  night  at  Aptos. 

Usually  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace  the  origin  of  the 
names  of  Western  towns,  for  their  histories  are  sel- 
dom long.  But  I  asked  in  vain  for  the  derivation  of 
this  Greek-sounding  word.  Who,  or  what,  was 
Aptos?  I  applied  to  my  landlord,  but  he  could  only 
answer  my  question  with  another,  —  "Aptos,  Aptos; 
well,  Aptos  is  a  good  name,  ain't  it?"  A  quartette 
of  Aptosians  arrived  after  supper,  to  dangle  for  an 
hour  about  the  porch  and  cultivate  the  social  side  by 
one  of  those  friendly  contests  of  mingled  grossness 
and  profanity  which  pass  so  often  for  wit  in  the  rural 
life  of  the  West.  From  this  hideous  atmosphere  I 
escaped  to  wander  for  an  hour  among  the  redwoods, 
and  listen  to  the  mutter  of  the  sea  as  it  broke  against 
the  cliffs  half  a  mile  away. 

An  easy  ride  next  morning  through  quiet  rural 
roads,  and  a  village  or  two  where  loafers  on  sugar- 
barrels  were  dallying  with  watermelons,  brought  us 
to  the  city  of  Santa  Cruz,  lying  at  the  north  bend  of 
Monterey  Bay.  It  has  a  population  of  some  tw<  Ive 
thousand,  and  seemed  to  me  a  staid,  ordinary  kind 
of  place,  though  it  is  much  in  request  as  a  rendez- 
vous for  conventions,  and  is  certainly  endowi-d  with 
an  unusually  fine  bathing-beach.  Here  once  stood 
another  of  the  Franciscan  Missions,  but  no  trace 
of  it  remains. 

The  mountain  belt  that  rises  to  the  north  of  Santa 
Cruz  carries  a  particularly  tine  forest  of  redwoods. 


230        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

I  could  not  think  of  missing  these  noble  giants,  so 
once  more  I  abandoned  the  coast  for  a  few  days  and 
struck  directly  into  the  mountains.  The  road  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  the  beautiful  San  Lorenzo 
River,  and  I  was  soon  again  in  the  companionship 
of  the  trees,  —  a  mingling  of  sequoia,  spruce,  alder, 
bay,  box-elder,  and  maple.  The  canon  is  a  deep  one, 
and  the  narrow  road  is  cut  into  its  western  side, 
giving  fine  views  up  and  down  the  wooded  gorge. 

Automobiles  were  unusually  numerous  and  irre- 
sponsible, charging  down  on  us  round  the  sharpest 
curves  with  no  formalities  of  horn-blowing.  After 
Anton  had  passed  through  various  stages  of  indig- 
nation and  alarm,  he  could  see  nothing  for  it  but  to 
turn  and  bolt  from  every  car  we  met,  and  I  had  some 
exciting  moments  while  we  pirouetted  about  on  the 
edge  of  the  five-hundred-foot  chasm. 

As  I  was  eating  my  lunch  by  a  spring  beside  the 
road,  a  sound  of  shouting  began  to  come  up  out  of 
the  canon.  It  was  in  a  peculiar  sing-song  drawl,  and 
came  nearer  and  nearer  until,  when  it  arrived  close 
to  where  I  sat,  I  stood  up  to  see  what  phenomenon 
was  about  to  appear.  There  was  a  creaking  and 
cracking  of  underbrush,  and  then  the  heads  of  a  yoke 
of  oxen  rose  above  the  level  of  the  road,  and  so  re- 
mained while  two  pairs  of  solemn  eyes  took  stock 
of  me  and  my  companion.  Gradually  six  yoke 
emerged,  followed  by  a  man  with  a  goad,  who  was 
the  author  of  the  melancholy  music,  and  then  by  a 
wagon  and  trailer  on  which  was  a  single  huge  log  of 


THE   SANTA    CRUZ    REDWOODS     231 

redwood.  They  went  quartering  about  from  side 
to  side  of  the  road,  and  when  four  similar  processions 
had  followed  them,  and  they  had  all  come  to  anchor, 
the  hubbub  ceased,  half  the  oxen  lay  down,  and  the 
drivers  gathered  at  the  spring  for  the  noon  meal. 
They  were  swarthy,  bullet-headed  fellows,  and 
proved  all  to  be  Portuguese,  speaking  no  English,  so 
that  our  conversation  was  limited.  However,  it  was 
full  of  good-will,  expressed  in  a  friendly  interchange 
of  wine  and  tobacco. 

Just  beyond,  a  side  road  led  off  to  a  grove  of  ex- 
ceptionally fine  sequoias.  I  found  the  spot  given  up 
to  picnic  arrangements,  and  the  trees  themselves  be- 
spattered with  business  cards  and  unsightly  scrawl- 
ings.  One  or  two  of  the  largest  bore  inscriptions,  — 
''Dedicated  to  the  Los  Angeles  Produce  Exchange 
by  the  San  Francisco  Dairy  and  Fruit  Exchange"; 
and  "Dedicated  to  Reading  Commandery  No.  42 
Knights  Templars  of  Pennsylvania."  I  pondered 
these  inexplicable  labels  for  some  time,  and  could 
only  conclude  that  they  were  examples  of  the  same 
pitiful  ambition  that  Hamlet  observed  in  a  certain 
kind  of  players. 

The  great  trees  themselves,  if  one  could  get  them 
free  of  these  trivialities,  are  wonderful  and  stately 
enough,  the  tall,  tapering  shafts  rising  in  superb  grace 
and  power,  flecked  with  purple  and  gold  along  their 
fluted  channellings.  A  forest  of  their  kind  surrounds 
them,  mingled  with  a  few  other  species,  and  the  clear, 
bright  river  ripples  or  steals  along  as  seductively 


232        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

as  river  can  do.  But  I  can  never  enjoy  these  spots 
"dedicated"  to  beer  and  sandwiches,  or  even  to 
Masons  and  butter-men,  and  I  was  soon  glad  to  turn 
away. 

A  long  mountain  ridge  rose  on  my  left,  named 
Ben  Lomond,  and  this  hot  day  I  sighed  for  a  little 
of  the  authentic  Ben  Lomond  atmosphere  of  rain 
or  mist.  The  locality  abounds  in  handsome  country- 
houses,  all  with  Scottish  names,  such  as  "Bonnie 
Doon,"  "Strathspey,"  "Bracken  Brae,"  and  "Ro- 
wardennen."  I  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  pretty 
little  village  of  Ben  Lomond,  where  the  arrival  of  a 
traveller  of  my  order  is  so  rare  an  event  that  the 
children  playing  in  the  oak-shaded  street  sent  a  de- 
putation to  interview  me,  and  ask  a  few  explicit 
questions,  —  "Who  are  you?"  "What  do  you  do?1* 
"Where  have  you  come  from?"  and  "Where  are 
you  going?"  I  explained  with  equal  straightfor- 
wardness that  I  was  Alexander  Selkirk,  an  Anthro- 
pophagus  by  profession,  residing  regularly  in  Kam- 
chatka, but  at  present  on  my  way  to  visit  the  Cham 
of  Tartary;  and  was  pleased  to  see  that  the  frank- 
ness of  my  replies  afforded  general  satisfaction. 

Our  road  next  day  continued  for  a  few  miles  along 
the  canon  of  the  San  Lorenzo  as  far  as  a  small  town 
called  Boulder  Creek,  chiefly  remarkable  for  sup- 
porting an  equipment  of  twenty-one  saloons.  From 
here  I  turned  more  westerly,  following  the  course  of 
the  pretty  stream  from  which  the  town  is  named,  in 
order  to  visit  the  California  Redwood  Park,  a  tract 


THE    CALIFORNIA    REDWOOD    PARK  233 

of  specially  fine  timber  which  has  been  rescued  by 
the  State  from  destruction  and  set  aside  as  a  public 
pleasure-ground.  Again  automobiles  were  trying 
(for  we  were  getting  within  range  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco pleasure  travel),  and  Anton  and  I  often  con- 
doled over  our  wrongs.  At  the  first  opportunity  I 
turned  into  a  side  road,  rough  enough  to  discourage 
the  hardiest  chauffeur,  and  soon  found  a  trail  which 
led  through  magnificent  forest  to  the  Park. 

The  summer  crop  of  tourists  had  departed,  and  I 
found  that  the  warden,  whose  duty  it  is  to  assign 
camping-places  to  visitors,  had  gone  huckleberrying, 
like  a  wise  official.   This  suited  me  well,  and  I  made 
haste  to  pitch  camp  under  a  stately  redwood,  de- 
spite the  warnings  of  a  quarrelsome  colony  of  squir- 
rels. Here  I  spent  a  delightful  Sunday,  wandering  be- 
side brown  creeks  under  superb  sequoias  and  scarcely 
inferior  spruces,  and  enjoying  a  veritable  feast  of 
huckleberries.    It  was  my  first  introduction  to  the 
plant,  and  I  found  a  double  zest  in  the  fruit  when  I 
saw  what  a  sprightly  and  beautiful  shrub  supplied  it. 
I  found  the  impressiveness  of  these  splendid  red- 
woods to  be  quite  unlike  that  of  their  relatives,  the 
Giant  Trees  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.     Many  of  the 
trees  in  this  belt  of  forest  reach  a  diameter  of  over 
fifteen  feet  and  a  height  of  three  hundred,  the  age 
of  such  patriarchs  being  known  to  exceed  ten  centu- 
ries. But  they  seemed  to  me  to  lack  that  individual 
majesty  of  bearing  which  the  others  express,  and  to 
gain  their  distinction  rather  from  the  cumulative 


234        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

effect  of  their  statuesque  beauty  than  from  the 
solemnity  of  ponderous  size  and  of  primogeniture 
among  living  things. 

I  now  turned  again  coastwards  over  a  trail  that 
traversed  another  noble  tract  of  timber,  known  as 
the  Big  Basin.  The  shade  was  almost  unbroken,  and 
the  trail  carpeted  deeply  with  fallen  leaves  of  ma- 
drono and  tan-bark  oak.  For  hours  the  silence  was 
unbroken  but  for  Anton's  muffled  footfalls,  and  a 
curious  distant  sound,  which  greatly  interested  him, 
and  which  I  guessed  to  be  the  moan  of  the  syren  at 
Pigeon  Point,  seven  miles  away.  Now  and  then  an 
acorn  dropped  sharply,  or  at  a  push  of  wind  a  few 
leaves  came  whispering  down.  The  great  stems  of 
the  redwoods  were  powdered  with  the  gray  rime  of 
age,  and  the  foliage  showed  the  rich  tinge  of  russet 
peculiar  to  this  evergreen,  the  dead  leaves  of  which 
long  remain  attached  to  the  tree. 

My  admiration  was  constantly  divided  between 
the  exquisite  symmetry  of  the  redwoods,  the  rugged 
magnificence  of  the  spruces,  and  the  rich  red  gleam 
of  the  madrono  stems.  The  forest  flowers  were  long 
past,  but  there  was  no  lack  for  them ;  for  here  was  a 
touch  of  scarlet  or  crimson  from  frost-stained  poi- 
son-oak, there  a  yellowing  leaf-spray  of  tan-bark  oak. 
All  was  gold,  green,  purple,  and  the  sensitive  warm 
or  wan  tones  of  autumn. 

So  we  lounged  along,  a  mile  an  hour.  Anton  was 
always  curious  about  my  note-book.  Usually  I  did 
my  scribbling  in  the  saddle,  but  when  I  was  leading 


FORI  -I    ROAD    1\    SANTA    CRUZ    COUNT"! 


AGAIN    AT    THE    COAST  235 

him  and  stopped  to  write,  he  would  watch  me  with 
his  head  a  little  cocked  and  a  puzzled  air  that  plainly 
asked,  "What  on  earth  are  you  always  up  to  with 
that  bit  of  stick?"  After  some  miles  we  crossed  the 
west  fork  of  Waddell  Creek  at  a  lovely  place  of  dim 
pools,  mossed  rocks,  and  waving  ferns.  Reaching  the 
next  crest,  on  a  sudden  we  were  among  arid  brush 
and  digger-pines,  with  a  blaze  of  sunlight  reflected 
from  a  white,  shaly  soil .  After  the  hours  of  greenness 
and  "dim  religious  light"  the  change  was  startling. 

At  the  next  rise  I  looked  out  upon  the  familiar 
sight  of  a  deep  seaward  canon  up  which  the  fog  was 
creeping.  Its  waves  were  just  rosied  by  the  evening 
sun,  and  timbered  shoulders  of  mountain  stood  up, 
darkly  purple,  through  the  fleecy  sea.  Down  this 
canon  we  pursued  our  way  in  thoughtful  mood  at- 
tuned to  the  gathering  shadows,  and  came  by  dusk 
to  a  lonely  ranch  where  I  made  application  for  our 
lodging.  The  good  people  made  us  welcome,  and  I  en- 
joyed the  unwonted  luxury  of  a  table  piled  with  mag- 
azines beside  the  social  hearth  of  a  cultivated  family. 

A  few  miles  of  travel  next  day  down  the  canon  of 
Whitehouse  Creek  brought  me  to  the  coast  at 
Franklin  Point.  A  thin  mist  overhung  sea  and  shore, 
and  through  it  I  could  dimly  see  in  the  south  Point 
Ano  Nuevo,  with  a  lighthouse  on  the  adjacent  little 
island.  The  coast  here,  though  not  high,  is  pictur- 
esque with  scattered  rocks  and  a  sea  vexed  into  con- 
tinual turmoil. 

Five  miles  to  the  north  is  the  hamlet  of  Pigeon 


236        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

Point.  A  handsome  lighthouse  stands  on  the  cliff. 
I  like  to  pay  my  respects  to  these  beneficent  senti- 
nels, so  I  called  there,  and  was  courteously  shown  over 
the  building  by  one  of  the  officers,  who  explained 
to  me  the  latest  triumphs  of  invention  in  lighthouse 
equipment. 

From  Pigeon  Point  the  road  passed  for  mile  on 
mile  through  a  gray  land,  inordinately  dusty,  and 
palliated  only  by  occasional  boons  in  the  shape  of 
thickets  of  goldenrod  or  a  sprinkling  of  lavender 
asters.  A  dull  sea  with  an  uneasy  voice  kept  us  close 
company,  and  about  once  an  hour  we  met  a  team  or 
passed  a  lichened  farmhouse.  After  crossing  a  la- 
goon which  lies  at  the  mouth  of  the  Arroyo  de  los 
Frijoles,  —  thus  does  the  Spanish  aggrandize  even 
humble  Bean  Creek,  —  the  road  lay  along  the  cliff 
beside  Pebble  Beach,  locally  famous  for  agates  and 
moonstones.  A  hotel  stood  on  the  bluff,  with  no 
other  house  in  sight  and  no  appearance  of  having 
so  much  as  a  solitary  guest  to  entertain.  Its  windy 
desolation  was  so  discouraging  that  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  try  their  entertainment,  though  it 
was  time  to  think  of  stopping.  Before  long  I  found 
a  road  leading  inland,  and  turning  into  it  came  to 
a  broad  green  canon  with  a  winding  creek.  A  couple 
of  miles  away  I  saw  the  little  town  of  Pescadero, 
standing  prettily  backed  by  wooded  ridges,  its  white 
houses  shining  in  the  evening  sun.  In  due  course  we 
marched  into  town,  where  I  was  just  in  time  for 
supper  at  the  comfortable  inn. 


A    BIBULOUS    BANKER  237 

The  experience  of  Moss  Landing  was  repeated. 
A  party  of  bibulous  sportsmen  arrived  during  the 
evening  and  pervaded  the  place  with  noise  and  pro- 
fanity. When  I  learned  that  the  noisiest,  thirstiest, 
and  most  obscene  of  the  group  was  a  banker  of 
San  Francisco,  I  congratulated  myself  that  no  funds 
of  mine  were  in  his  keeping,  and  hoped  that  warning 
visions  might  be  vouchsafed  to  his  clients  in  their 
dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Dust  and  wild  flowers  —  Half  Moon  Bay  —  "Gilt-edged"  real- 
estate  —  The  Montara  Mountain  coast  —  First  view  of  San 
Francisco  Bay  —  Colma:  an  Italian  lodging-house  —  San  Fran- 
cisco: as  in  1906,  and  now:  Bohemia:  Stevenson:  the  Mission 
Dolores  —  Ferry  to  Sausalito  —  Mill  Valley  —  Mount  Tamal- 
pais:  a  famous  view  —  The  Muir  Woods:  more  splendid  red- 
woods —  Willow  Camp  —  First  rain  —  Bolinas  Lagoon  —  Lonely 
country  and  a  lonely  ranch  —  A  pleasant  meeting  —  Drake's 
Bay:  the  Golden  Hind:  the  first  Protestant  service  on  Pacific 
shores:  Drake's  monument,  and  "Drake's  Drum." 

IN  the  last  day's  travel  we  had  crossed  from  Santa 
Cruz  into  San  Mateo  County.  Now  ensued 
twenty  miles  of  dreadful  dust,  but  compensated  by 
a  grateful  scarcity  of  automobiles,  though  we  were 
now  nearing  San  Francisco  and  were  almost  in  the 
latitude  of  the  southern  end  of  the  bay.  The  coast 
road  is  continuously  hilly,  and  the  great  bulk  of 
travel  follows  the  level  inland  road  by  way  of  Palo 
Alto  and  San  Jose.  Brown,  monotonous  hills  rolled 
along  on  the  east,  treeless  but  for  occasional  clumps 
of  eucalyptus  that  marked  the  rare  farmhouses. 
Now  and  then  the  road  came  out  upon  high  whitish 
cliffs  fringed  with  a  broad  band  of  surf,  the  growl  of 
which  was  a  matter  of  never-failing  interest  to  Anton. 
Fog  obscured  the  ocean  at  a  mile  or  two  from 
shore.  The  roadside  bushes  were  drab  with  five 
months  of  drought,  but  a  few  asters  and  late  wild 


HALF    MOON    BAY  239 

roses  still  kept  their  cheerful  smiles,  and  their  petals 
were  as  pure  and  bright  as  though  newly  washed  by 
the  rains  of  spring,  —  a  miracle  which  I  never  cease 
to  admire  in  wild  flowers  in  general,  and  those  of 
our  dry  California  summers  especially. 

At  the  village  of  San  Gregorio  I  noted  one  reason 
for  the  small  amount  of  travel  on  the  road  when  I 
saw  the  collection  of  wagons  that  were  drawn  up 
awaiting  their  drivers,  who  were  circulating  indus- 
triously from  saloon  to  saloon.  Nearing  Tunitas 
Creek,  we  were  greeted  by  the  screech  of  a  loco- 
motive, and  I  found  that  we  were  at  the  temporary 
terminus  of  the  Ocean  Shore  Railroad,  which  comes 
down  the  coast  thus  far  from  San  Francisco. 

Then  we  passed  a  straggling  settlement  named 
Purisima,  the  capital,  so  to  speak,  of  a  grant  of  land 
enjoying  the  lengthy  title  of  Canada  Verde  y  Arroyo 
de  la  Purisima;  and  soon  arrived  at  the  town  of 
Half  Moon  Bay,  lying  a  mile  inland  from  the  shore 
of  the  bay  itself,  which  I  could  see  curving  round  to 
the  northwest,  where  it  terminated  in  the  promon- 
tory of  Pillar  Point.  It  was  still  fairly  early,  but  I 
felt  really  unable  to  face  any  more  dust  for  one  day. 
So  we  sought  our  respective  quarters,  and  I,  for  my 
part,  subsided  without  delay  into  a  bath. 

Next  day  was  the  equinox,  and  the  morning  was 
dull,  threatening  (or,  a  better  way  of  putting  it, 
promising)  rain.  We  were  early  on  the  road,  which 
rounded  the  head  of  the  bay,  passing  through  a  num- 
ber of  new-born  "cities"  whose  existence  was  to  be 


240        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

known  mainly  by  pitiful  little  cement  sidewalks, 
already  bulging  and  broken.  Each  place  in  succes- 
sion adjured  me  by  stentorian  sign-boards  not  to 
miss  the  wealth  that  awaited  investors  in  its  "gilt- 
edged"  lots.  It  was  a  boon  to  exchange  the  songs 
of  these  financial  syrens  for  the  charms  of  a  sea  and 
sky  alike  of  wistful  gray,  lighted  ever  and  anon  by 
gleams  of  gold  that  bore  no  hint  of  real  estate. 

The  road  came  again  to  the  shore  at  Montara 
Point,  where  there  is  a  small  lighthouse.  A  mile 
ahead  a  fine  mountain  came  sharply  to  the  sea,  and 
I  could  trace  a  road  graded  steeply  over  it.  I  had  not 
expected  another  taste  of  the  mountains  so  near  as 
I  now  was  to  San  Francisco,  and  I  rejoiced  at  the 
sight.  We  soon  began  the  climb,  which  brought  mag- 
nificent views  of  cliff  and  sea,  often  several  hundred 
feet  almost  sheer  below. 

The  mist  lay  thickly  over  the  water  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  shore,  and  I  had  to  leave  to  the  mind's 
eye  the  view  I  had  anticipated,  of  the  sails  or  smoke 
of  many  vessels  making  to  the  Golden  Gate.  From 
the  summit  of  the  grade  I  looked  out  to  the  north 
upon  the  green  valley  of  San  Pedro  and  the  long 
line  of  cliff  shore  that  runs  to  the  entrance  of  the 
great  bay.  Below,  the  fine  headland  of  San  Pedro 
Point  stood  out  to  the  west,  ending  in  a  picturesque 
little  island  pinnacled  like  an  iceberg;  and  farther 
to  the  north  I  could  just  discern  the  outline  of  the 
high,  bold  coast  of  Marin. 

A  steep  descent  followed  by  a  few  miles  of  mo- 


VIEW    OF   SAN    FRANCISCO    BAY    241 

notorious  road  brought  us  to  Laguna  Salada,  where 
I  found  an  ambitious  hotel  and  another  array  of 
empty  streets  and  avenues.  Then  came  a  winding 
road,  which  at  length  turned  inland  and  climbed  a 
long  ascent.  At  the  top  I  turned  in  my  saddle  to 
take,  as  I  thought,  a  backward  view  of  the  country 
I  had  been  travelling.  To  my  surprise  I  saw  no- 
thing that  I  could  recognize,  but,  instead,  a  coast- 
line entirely  strange  to  me.  After  a  puzzled  moment 
it  dawned  upon  me  that  I  was  looking  down  upon  the 
Bay  of  San  Francisco,  and  we  took  a  few  minutes' 
rest  while  I  digested  the  fact  and  congratulated 
myself  on  having  reached  this  salient  point  of  the 
expedition. 

Opposite  rose  the  long  brown  ridge  of  San  Bruno 
Mountain,  with  the  small  town  of  Colma  at  its  foot. 
I  turned  Anton  towards  it,  and  after  interminable 
miles  of  vegetable  gardens  arrived  in  the  town  by 
evening,  to  find  that  there  was  neither  hotel  nor 
livery-stable  in  the  place.  San  Francisco  was  still 
several  miles  away,  and  Anton  was  tired,  so  I  was 
averse  to  going  any  farther.  With  some  difficulty 
I  got  Anton  accommodated  at  a  private  stable,  and 
found  a  bed  for  myself  at  an  Italian  lodging-house 
which  was  also  a  saloon. 

Here  I  dined  on  soup,  macaroni,  and  the  thinnest 
of  wine  with  the  proprietor  (who  bore  an  astonish- 
ing likeness  to  the  Emperor  Nero),  his  jolly  wife  and 
baby,  and  eleven  other  sons  of  Italy.  During  the 
evening  the  landlord  entertained  the  company  with 


242         CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

operatic  airs  on  his  accordion,  a  complicated  instru- 
ment which  he  played  with  remarkable  skill ;  while 
the  wife,  with  the  greatest  good  humor,  performed 
peasant  dances  for  us  amid  our  cheers,  and  the  fat 
baby  tumbled  happily  about  on  the  pool-table  in  the 
delicate  olive  costume  in  which  she  was  born. 

The  population  of  Colma  is  almost  entirely  Italian, 
and  I  could  better  imagine  myself  in  Naples  than 
on  the  edge  of  San  Francisco ;  none  the  less  so  while 
I  tossed  about  all  night  on  a  straw  mattress,  tor- 
tured by  fleas  and  mosquitoes  of  truly  Neapolitan 
ferocity. 

Next  morning,  with  the  one  eye  which  the  mos- 
quitoes had  left  in  condition,  I  piloted  Anton  among 
unlimited  electric  cars  and  automobiles  into  San 
Francisco,  and  left  him  at  a  stable  on  Mission  Street. 
Matters  of  tailoring,  bootmaking,  and  other  small 
affairs  detained  me  in  the  city  for  a  few  days,  during 
which  time  I  enlarged  the  acquaintance  with  new 
San  Francisco  which  I  had  begun  on  my  last  visit, 
soon  after  the  historic  disaster  of  1906.  My  recol- 
lections of  that  time  were  of  a  Sahara  of  choking 
gray  dust,  through  which  loomed  the  ruins,  appar- 
ently, of  some  city  of  antiquity,  just  discovered  and 
in  process  of  being  excavated.  As  I  climbed  then 
along  the  hummocky  streets  I  had  looked  down  into 
gaping  chasms  hideous  with  debris,  among  which  sat 
files  of  gritty  goblins,  chip,  chip,  chipping  away 
eternally  at  mountains  of  old  bricks.  The  air  rang 
with  the  sound  of  their  trowels.    Huge  girders  and 


SAN    FRANCISCO  243 

shafts  of  smoke-blackened  masonry  rose  spectrally 
here  and  there,  and  from  the  sides  of  the  pits  twisted 
pipes  projected  with  a  ghastly  resemblance  to  sev- 
ered arteries. 

I  found  now  a  splendid  city  of  steel  and  marble, 
with  monster  hotels,  palatial  banks,  and  sky-scrap- 
ing office  buildings.  Here  and  there  a  vacant  lot  still 
gaped  like  a  missing  tooth,  and  hinted  the  grim 
words,  Fire,  and  Earthquake.  But  wonderful  as  the 
resurrection  has  been,  I  found,  as  usual,  that  the 
features  of  the  place  attracted  me  in  inverse  ratio 
to  their  newness.  It  was  less  of  pleasure  to  feast  at 
the  St.  Francis  than  at  the  Cafe"  de  la  Tour  Eiffel, 
where  one  walks  on  sanded  floors,  sits  at  old  tables 
"larded  with  the  steam  of  thirty  thousand  dinners," 
and  dines  off  cabbage  soup,  boiled  beef,  and  wine  de- 
cidedly ordinaire:  where  the  company  is  perhaps  as 
much  Alsatian  as  Bohemian,  and  probably  as  well 
worth  noticing  as  that  which  one  would  meet  at  the 
famous  Club.  M.  Defarge  had,  moreover,  legends  of 
Stevenson  to  relate,  and  directed  me  to  Portsmouth 
Square,  near  by,  where  I  found  the  monument  to  his 
memory,  fortunately  spared  by  the  earthquake. 

While  I  stood  before  it,  up  came  first  a  natty  Jap- 
anese and  then  a  dusty  Italian  laborer,  to  drink  at 
the  fountain.  Seeing  me  reading  the  inscription, 
they  inquired  whom  and  what  it  was  about.  I  read 
them  the  well-known  sentences,  "To  be  honest,  to 
be  kind,"  and  so  on,  and  did  my  best  at  a  brief  expo- 
sition of  the  general  meaning,  thinking  how  the  inci- 


244        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

dent  would  have  pleased  the  cosmopolitan  R.  L.  S. 
himself. 

I  paid  my  visit  also  to  the  Mission  of  San  Fran- 
cisco de  Asis,  the  "Mission  Dolores"  of  Bret 
Harte's  sketch.  It  never  can  have  been  a  very  at- 
tractive building,  but  it  has  its  interest  as  the  church 
of  the  old  town  of  Yerba  Buena,  the  germ  of  the 
present  capital  of  the  Western  United  States.  The 
Mission,  which  Bret  Harte  "gave  but  a  few  years 
longer  to  sit  by  the  highway  and  ask  alms  in  the 
name  of  the  blessed  saints,"  has  survived  his  pro- 
phecy much  longer  already  than  he  thought,  and 
has  been  renovated  to  a  better  condition  than  the 
"ragged  senility"  in  which  he  saw  it.  But  the 
churchyard  is  to-day  much  as  he  described  it,  and  I 
take  the  willow  tree  growing  beside  the  deep  brown 
wall  to  be  the  same  that  he  noted.  The  place  is  rank 
with  vegetation,  yet  not  untidy;  and  even  with  its 
modern  surroundings  there  is  a  gentle  quietude  about 
it  that  seemed  to  me  more  pleasing  and  humane 
than  the  spick-and-span  elegance  of  shaven  lawns 
and  parterres  of  formal  flowers. 

I  climbed  "  the  rocky  fastnesses  of  Telegraph  Hill," 
prowled  among  the  incongruities  of  the  foreign 
quarter  and  the  chromatic  heathendom  of  China- 
town, ferried  over  to  Oakland  and  mingled  with  the 
collegians  on  the  campus  of  the  University  of  Berke- 
ley, and  finally  wandered  for  an  afternoon  in  Golden 
Gate  Park,  where  I  saw  bands  of  quail  running  fear- 
lessly among  the  shrubbery,  —  a   charming  sight 


FERRY   TO    SAUSALITO  245 

from  which  I  argue  that,  notwithstanding  the  gen- 
eral belief,  San  Franciscans  cannot  after  all  be  wholly 
bad. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  end  of  September  when 
at  early  morning  I  guided  Anton  down  to  the  ferry. 
We  were  objects  of  much  interest  to  passers-by  in 
cars  and  on  sidewalks;  no  doubt  of  envy  also  to  not 
a  few.  Motormen  took  delight  in  springing  a  sudden 
salute  of  bells  at  us  as  they  sped  by,  and  newsboys 
varied  their  chant  of  "Chronicle!  Call!  Zaminer!" 
with  joyous  yells  of  "Whoop!  See  the  cowboy!" 
Anton  took  his  surroundings  more  calmly  than 
might  have  been  expected,  considering  the  contrast 
with  his  native  sage-plains ;  though  he  glanced  anx- 
iously up  each  side  street  for  a  way  of  escape.  And 
when  after  three  miles  of  constant  tension  he  felt  the 
tremor  of  the  boat,  he  gazed  at  me  with  a  startled 
expression  that  seemed  to  say,  "Look  here,  this 
thing  must  be  hollow.  How  do  you  know  it  won't 
fall  to  pieces?" 

We  disembarked  at  Sausalito,  on  the  southeast 
point  of  the  Marin  Peninsula,  ready  for  the  northern 
and  last  division  of  the  trip.  Sausalito  is  a  pretty 
little  town  built  on  hills  that  overlook  the  bay.  Here 
I  got  my  delayed  breakfast,  and  then  leisurely  took 
the  road  along  the  placid  bay  shore.  Ahead  rose  the 
striking  shape  of  Mount  Tamalpais,  with  the  vil- 
lage of  Mill  Valley  on  its  forest-clouded  foot.  To  the 
west  rose  low  hills,  at  first  brown  and  thinly  timbered, 
but    gradually    taking    a    sprinkling  of   redwoods 


246        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

amid  which  were  dotted  the  houses  of  fortunate  sub- 
urbanites. 

I  put  up  at  the  village  for  the  night,  and  next 
morning  climbed  the  mountain  to  secure  that  re- 
nowned view  with  which  all  California  tourists  are 
familiar.  Before  I  reached  the  top,  I  was  ready  to 
wish  I  had  patronized  the  railway  which  runs  to  the 
summit  by  a  series  of  spectacular  curves  and  loop- 
ings.  The  day  was  hot,  the  way  shadeless,  and  for 
half  the  distance  the  trail  is  over  loose  sliding  stones 
and  at  an  excessive  slope.  I  had  a  dark  suspicion 
that  the  directors  of  the  railway  might  have  had 
these  thousands  of  tons  of  broken  rock  dumped  here, 
with  the  idea  of  discouraging  pedestrians. 

After  all,  when  I  gained  the  top  I  found  many  of 
the  notable  features  of  the  landscape  obscured  by 
the  mists  of  late  summer;  and  over  the  region  I  most 
wished  to  see,  namely,  the  panorama  of  Drake's 
Bay  and  Point  Reyes,  there  hung  a  curtain  of  haze 
as  thick  as  if  all  the  accumulated  dust  of  San  Fran- 
cisco had  gathered  there.  Still,  I  was  able  to  recog- 
nize the  twin  peaks  of  Mount  Diablo,  thirty-five 
miles  to  the  east,  and  Mount  St.  Helena,  fifteen 
miles  farther  away  in  the  north.  Nearer  by  to  the 
northeast  lay  the  town  of  San  Rafael,  the  site  of  the 
most  northerly  and  last  in  order  of  foundation,  but 
one,  of  the  Franciscan  Missions,  but  of  which,  after 
the  lapse  of  less  than  a  century,  no  trace  remains. 

On  leaving  Mill  Valley  I  turned  westward  toward 
the  coast.   It  was  a  cloudy  day,  with  a  promise  of 


THE    MUIR    WOODS  '247 

rain,  and  the  road  was  delightfully  rural.  Within 
half  an  hour  I  noticed  deer-tracks  by  the  roadside, 
and  everywhere  the  finger  of  autumn  had  touched 
the  foliage  with  the  rich  and  tender  beauty  of  decay. 

Two  or  three  miles  brought  us  to  the  Muir  Woods, 
a  splendid  tract  of  woodland  that  was  presented  to 
the  nation  a  few  years  ago  by  a  prominent  Califor- 
nian,  to  be  held  as  a  perpetual  monument  to  the  pre- 
mier of  Western  naturalist-writers.  The  woods  are 
the  most  beautiful  of  any  preserved  enclosure  that  I 
have  ever  seen,  and  the  soft  gray  day  gave  them 
their  finest  aspect.  The  special  glory  of  the  place  is 
in  the  redwoods.  The  great  shafts  rise  in  natural 
majesty  from  a  handsomely  varied  undergrowth, 
and  here  and  there  stand  individual  groups,  like  the 
side  chapels  of  a  cathedral,  with  high  rose-windows 
opening  to  the  sky,  rich  with  tracery  of  twig,  and 
branch,  and  plumy  spray.  A  brown  creek  threads 
its  way  along,  mingling  its  childlike  narrative  with 
fluting  of  bird,  chatter  of  squirrel,  and  solemn  mono- 
tone of  forest  wind. 

I  rode  for  an  hour  or  two  about  this  choice  spot, 
letting  Anton  take  me  where  he  would,  since  all  alike 
was  charming:  then  took  the  trail  directly  for  the 
coast.  It  passed  over  a  high,  windy  moorland,  va- 
ried with  broken  forest  of  oak,  spruce,  and  redwood. 
The  view  seaward,  though  somewhat  obscured  by 
haze,  showed  the  narrow  tongue  of  Point  Bonita, 
and  in  faint  outline  the  northern  part  of  the  San 
Francisco  peninsula,  with  a  few  vessels  inward  or 


248        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

outward  bound  through  the  Golden  Gate.  To  the 
west  lay  the  long  silver  reach  of  the  Bolinas  La- 
goon, and  at  the  nearer  end  the  scattering  village 
of  Willow  Camp.  Here  I  arrived  at  sundown,  and 
found  quarters  at  a  sort  of  nondescript  inn,  well 
known  to  the  sportsmen  of  the  Bay  cities,  who  re- 
sort here  in  winter  to  make  war  upon  the  ducks  of 
the  lagoon. 

Except  for  the  inn  itself  the  place  is  new,  and  con- 
sists only  of  the  country  cottages  of  a  few  San  Fran- 
ciscans. Its  situation  and  surroundings  are  very  at- 
tractive. The  curving  beach  opens  southward  upon 
a  breezy  tract  of  sea  dotted  with  the  shipping  of  the 
greatest  port  of  the  Pacific.  Steep  hills  rise  close  be- 
hind it  to  two  thousand  feet  of  altitude,  the  edge  of 
a  broad  belt  of  finely  broken  country.  The  hollows 
and  canons  are  dark  with  timber,  mostly  pictur- 
esque thickets  of  wind-shorn  laurel.  Far  away  on 
the  horizon  lie  the  desolate  islands  of  the  Farallones 
with  their  lonely  lighthouse  and  year-long  clamor  of 
gulls. 

I  was  awakened  at  night  by  the  sound  of  heavy 
rain  on  the  tent  in  which  I  slept.  It  was  the  first 
rain  I  had  experienced,  except  for  a  slight  sprinkle 
or  two,  since  I  left  Los  Angeles  in  the  middle  of 
May.  Now  it  was  the  first  of  October,  and  I  took 
the  change  as  a  hint  that  I  had  better  complete  my 
expedition  quickly. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  brought  a  few 
more  showers  and  a  magnificent  entertainment  of 


BOLINAS    LAGOON  249 

cloud-forms  that  piled  in  slumbering  thunder  on  the 
seaward  horizon  and  dragged  in  Ossian-Iike  gloom 
along  the  heights  that  back  the  village.  But  the  day 
closed  in  a  Sabbath  serenity,  and  the  next  morning 
came  clear,  with  a  cheerful  wind  from  the  north 
that  forecast  a  continuance  of  fair  weather. 

We  took  our  way  westward,  following  the  north- 
ern margin  of  the  lagoon.  Choirs  of  blackbirds  in 
the  reeds  sang  their  loudest  in  praise  of  the  day,  and 
I  was  fain  to  join  the  chorus.  Anton,  too,  was  in  his 
best  humor,  and  strode  along  with  a  free  gait,  though 
not  without  an  eye  to  the  scraps  of  green  that 
fringed  the  road,  mixed  among  thickets  of  wild  rose, 
asters,  and  sultry  goldenrod.  A  few  pleasure-boats 
were  cruising  about,  and  files  of  waterfowl  manoeu- 
vred on  the  placid  water.  It  was  much  too  pretty  a 
morning  for  one  to  be  in  a  hurry,  and  noon  had 
come  before  we  reached  the  village  of  Bolinas,  which 
lies  at  the  western  point  of  the  lagoon.  Thence  the 
road  continued  westward  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  sea,  through  a  quiet,  treeless  land  with  an  occa- 
sional dairy-farm  staring  from  the  brown  hill- 
sides. 

For  hours  we  kept  this  lonely  road,  meeting  only 
one  team  during  the  whole  afternoon.  Towards 
evening  we  began  to  enter  a  rougher  country,  with 
sharply  broken  hills  bearing  a  scattering  growth  of 
spruce.  At  a  solitary  farm  I  stopped  to  prospect  for 
accommodation,  but  could  find  no  one  about  the 
place.   Anton's  behavior  at  such  times  was  always 


250        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

amusing.  He  would  watch  me  eagerly  as  I  went  to 
the  house,  and  when,  as  in  this  case,  no  door  was 
opened  in  response  to  my  knock,  his  anxiety  became 
quite  comic,  and  he  would  gaze  at  me  with  serious 
concern  and  an  air  of  conferring  with  me  as  to  what 
was  to  be  done  now. 

As  it  had  been  some  miles  since  we  passed  the  last 
ranch,  I  did  not  want  to  go  farther  lest  it  might  be  as 
far  on  to  the  next.  The  necessity,  as  ever,  was  for 
fodder,  for  long  before  now  the  pasturage  had  been 
exhausted  to  a  point  that  would  mean  starvation  for 
an  animal  in  work. 

After  passing  half  an  hour  in  dispute  with  a  con- 
tentious sow  that  seemed  to  be  in  charge  of  the 
premises,  a  young  woman  galloped  up  on  horseback, 
and  a  moment  later  a  young  man  followed  in  a 
wagon.  I  explained  my  needs,  and  was  invited  to 
put  up  my  horse  and  to  sleep  in  the  house  if  I  chose. 
They  were  brother  and  sister,  Italian-Swiss,  and 
speaking  little  English,  so  that  conversation  was 
somewhat  obstructed.  But  I  was  glad  to  share  their 
simple,  hearty  supper,  and  slept  finely  on  my  clean 
straw  bed,  in  spite  of  three  glum  saints  and  a  scowl- 
ing cardinal  who  decorated  the  walls  of  the  little 
whitewashed  room. 

When  I  came  to  saddle  up  next  morning,  I  found 
that  while  I  slumbered  my  enemy  the  sow  had  over- 
hauled my  saddle-bags,  with  the  result  that  I  was 
"out"  my  single  loaf  of  bread,  two  pounds  of  bacon, 
the  half  of  a  note- book  (fortunately  unused),  and 


DRAKE'S    BAY  251 

a  few  revolver  cartridges.  I  wished  there  were  some 
means  of  exploding  these  last,  in  loco. 

The  country  here  was  very  interesting  in  appear- 
ance. A  group  of  small  fresh-water  lakes  lies  near 
the  shore,  which  rises  to  a  picturesque  moorland 
backed  by  irregular  hills.  Seaward,  the  Farallones 
showed  like  icebergs  on  the  sky-line,  and  the  long 
arm  of  Point  Reyes  marked  the  outline  of  Drake's 
Bay.  Hours  passed  without  a  sign  of  human  life: 
once  or  twice  a  deer  appeared  in  some  glade  among 
the  brush,  and  frequent  coveys  of  quail  whirred 
away  as  we  put  them  up.  This  is  a  magnificent  game 
country,  and  the  fact  has  not  been  overlooked  by 
the  sporting  clubs,  whose  notices  hailed  me  on  all 
sides  with  threats  of  Severe  Penalties  and  Utmost 
Rigors. 

While  Anton  was  making  the  most  of  a  halt  by  a 
spring  with  a  few  square  yards  of  verdure,  I  was 
joined  by  two  officers  of  the  Coast  Artillery  Corps, 
who  were  out  from  the  Military  Reservation  at 
Point  Bonita  for  the  three-day  test  ride  invented  by 
an  ex- President  of  strenuous  memory.  It  was  a 
pleasant  meeting,  and  seemed  a  fitting  place  for 
Americans  and  Britons  to  fraternize,  looking  out 
over  the  historic  waters  of  Drake's  Bay.  It  hap- 
pened that  we  met  on  opposite  circuits,  but  we  made 
an  appointment  to  dine  together  in  the  evening  at 
Olema,  our  common  objective  for  the  day. 

Coming  to  a  ranch-house  a  few  miles  farther  on,  I 
stopped   for  lunch.   I   always  enjoy   these  chance 


252        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

meals  at  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  places.  The  peo- 
ple here  again  were  Italian-Swiss,  and  if  the  dishes 
were  a  shade  overdone  with  garlic  the  good-will  was 
all  that  could  be  desired.  Then,  taking  a  southward 
road  down  Bear  Canon,  I  rode  for  a  mile  or  two  be- 
side a  pretty  stream  under  a  sort  of  tunnel  formed 
by  prodigious  bays  whose  mossy  branches  joined 
overhead.  The  scent,  though  it  is  a  pleasant  one,  was 
almost  overpowering.  Ferns  banked  the  roadside 
solidly  by  the  mile ;  and  the  light,  filtered  through 
triple  screens  of  verdure,  was  like  the  soft,  clear 
greenness  of  a  mermaid's  grotto. 

From  where  the  canon  issued  near  the  shore,  I 
rode  a  few  miles  westward  to  the  edge  of  Drake's 
Bay.  It  was  a  spot  I  had  greatly  wished  to  visit, 
and  I  threw  myself  down  on  the  cliff  to  enjoy  the 
occasion  and  the  scene.  So  here  lay  the  little  Golden 
Hind,  three  hundred  and  thirty-two  years  ago,  hav- 
ing come  thus  far  on  her  memorable  circumnaviga- 
tion ;  and  this  is  the  shore  where  brave  Drake  landed, 
and  "called  this  country  Nova  Albion,  and  that  for 
two  causes;  the  one  in  respect  of  the  white  banks 
and  cliffs,  which  lie  towards  the  sea,  and  the  other 
because  it  might  have  some  affinity  with  our  coun- 
try in  name,  which  sometime  was  so  called." 

The  scene  was  not  specially  striking  in  itself,  and 
I  thought  it  all  the  better  that  it  was  not,  but  just 
the  old  simplicity  of  cliff  and  sea.  A  rattling  breeze 
blew  from  the  northwest,  and  under  it  the  long 
surges  came  swinging  in  and  broke  with  dogged 


DRAKE'S    MONUMENT  253 

persistence  at  the  base  of  the  hundred-foot  cliff.  A 
few  sea-birds  battled  and  screamed  against  the 
wind,  and  a  couple  of  hawks  answered  them  from 
landward. 

It  was  then,  too,  that  for  the  first  time  on  the  Pa- 
cific shores  a  Protestant  service,  after  the  order  of 
the  Church  of  England,  was  held  by  Master  Fletcher; 
when   "our  General  with   his    company  went  to 
prayer,  and  to  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  at  which 
exercise  the  people  of  the  country  were  attentive, 
and  seemed  greatly  to  be  affected  with  it."  And 
what  happened,  I  wondered,  to  the  monument  the 
Englishmen  set  up  on  that  occasion,  "namely,  a 
plate,  nailed  upon  a  fair  great  post,  whereupon  was 
engraved  her  Majesty's  name,  the  day  and  year  of 
our  arrival  there,  with  the  free  giving  up  of  the  pro- 
vince and  people  into  her  Majesty's  hands,  together 
with  her  Highness'  picture  and  arms,  in  a  piece  of 
six  pence  of  current  English  money,  under  the  plate, 
whereunder  was  also  written  the  name  of  our  Gen- 
eral."  I  suppose  it  may  have  long  remained  there, 
superstitiously  revered  by  the  natives  as  a  token  of 
the  prodigy  that  had  happened  in  the  days  of  their 
fathers.   Then,  probably,  came  some  band  of  Span- 
iards who,  spying  the  hated  names  of  Drake  and 
Elizabeth,  tore  or  burned  it  down  with  cries  of  exe- 
cration. 

I  will  mention  that  before  I  left  the  place  the  spec- 
tacle might  have  been  seen  of  a  travel-stained  indi- 
vidual on  horseback,  declaiming,  bareheaded,  the 


254        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

lines  of  Mr.  Newbolt's  lyric  of  "Drake's  Drum." 
When  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  sight  would  be  a 
humorous  one  to  an  observer,  his  reply  was,  "  I  can't 
help  that.  I  am  an  Englishman :  and  it  must  always 
be  hats  off  for  Englishmen  at  the  name  of  Drake." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Tomales  Bay  —  Wind,  dust,  oysters,  and  chickens  —  Drab  and  blue 

—  Camp  and  coyote  concert  —  Russian  River  —  Fine  scenic 
country,  and  a  sunset  —  Old  Fort  Ross:  an  excerpt  from  history 

—  A  new  pine  —  Camp  among  weird  surroundings  —  A  gale  and 
a  fine  sea  —  Stewart's  Point,  a  lumbering  settlement  —  A  place  of 
gloom,  Gualala. 

Seven  miles  northeast  of  Drake's  Bay  is  the  little 
town  of  Olema,  where  I  arrived  at  dusk.  At  the 
hotel  I  found  the  two  officers,  with  whom  I  exchanged 
experiences  of  the  day.  Early  next  morning  I  took 
the  road  that  follows  the  north  side  of  Tomales 
Bay,  a  long  narrow  inlet  bordered  on  the  south  by  a 
timbered  ridge  which  I  would  willingly  have  ex- 
plored but  that  I  could  get  no  certainty  of  a  ferry  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  bay.  Each  person  I  ques- 
tioned on  the  matter  contradicted  the  opinion  of  the 
last. 

At  Point  Reyes  Station,  a  settlement  at  the  head 
of  the  bay,  I  met  the  narrow-gauge  railroad  that 
runs  for  a  short  distance  up  the  coast  at  a  few  miles 
inland.  A  disagreeable  wind  blew  from  the  north- 
west, and  raised  quite  a  respectable  sea  on  the  estu- 
ary. Near  the  head  I  noticed  an  oyster  fishery, 
where  the  railroad  has  a  station  with  the  serio-comic 
name  of  Bivalve.  I  suppose  that  only  the  need  of 
brevity  hindered  them  from  calling  it  Toothsome,  as 


256        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

well.  Two  or  three  other  small  places  line  the  bay- 
side,  and  did  something,  though  not  much,  to  break 
the  dreary  brown  monotony  of  the  country  that  rolls 
away  northward.  One  tiny  settlement  has  with  un- 
usual modesty  named  itself  Hamlet. 

The  wind  was  cold,  and  neither  of  us  was  in  very 
cheerful  humor.  The  very  farmhouses  seemed  to 
shiver  in  company  with  us  and  the  pessimistic  cat- 
tle that  nosed  about  the  withered  pastures.  I  sup- 
pose my  voice  betrayed  my  feelings  to  Anton,  for 
such  remarks  as  "It's  dogged  as  does  it,  boy,"  or 
"Faint  yet  pursuing,  eh,  old  chap?"  failed  to  bring 
the  usual  good-humored  response.  It  was  a  relief 
when,  at  mid-afternoon,  we  reached  the  small  town 
of  Tomales,  and  exchanged  the  vague  discomforts 
of  the  road  for  the  concrete  misery  of  a  typical  coun- 
try hotel. 

The  region  we  travelled  next  day  was  still  the 
eternal  brown,  so  brown  as  to  appear  actually  rusty. 
It  looked  as  if  it  must  be  dry  for  ten  miles  below  the 
surface.  The  road  was  deep  in  dust,  and  still  tree- 
less; but  the  weather  was  better,  and  that  repul- 
sive wind  had  ceased  to  blow  or  had  gone  to  blow 
elsewhere.  Apples  shone  from  roadside  orchards, 
and  refulgent  pumpkins  gleamed  redder  for  the  first 
touch  of  frost.  I  bought  a  hatful  of  apples  at  a  farm, 
took  off  Anton's  bridle,  and  we  lounged  and  munched 
along  all  the  morning,  the  best  of  comrades. 

At  the  village  of  Valley  Ford  we  entered  Sonoma 
County,  and  at  the  same  time  bade  adieu  once  more 


DRAB    AND    BLUE  257 

to  sight  and  sound  of  railways  for  two  hundred  miles 
or  so.  Some  distance  up  the  coast  I  saw  a  dark  ridge 
of  timber  which  I  guessed  to  mark  the  commence- 
ment of  that  great  tree  belt  which  lines  the  shores 
of  northern  California  and  merges  in  the  colossal 
forests  of  Oregon,  Washington,  and  British  Colum- 
bia. 

The  country  I  was  now  passing  through  is  preemi- 
nently the  land  of  chickens.  At  each  farm  I  saw 
rows  of  little  structures  like  English  bathing-ma- 
chines, and  the  hillsides  about  these  chicken  villages 
were  all  alive  with  the  cackling  and  shouting  citi- 
zens. The  white  varieties  of  poultry  seem  to  have 
all  the  preference,  and  they  make  an  interesting 
show.  A  few  miles  to  the  east  is  the  city  of  Peta- 
luma,  the  California  metropolis  of  fowls. 

A  circuitous  hilly  road  brought  us  round  to  the 
head  of  Bodega  Bay,  —  a  lagoon  rather  than  a  bay, 
and  all  but  landlocked;  and  in  another  mile,  after 
crossing  a  stream  called  Salmon  Creek,  we  emerged 
at  ocean  edge.  The  coast  was  of  low  cliffs  with  a 
fringe  of  seaweed-covered  rocks  that  were  crowded 
with  gulls  and  pelicans,  these  last  in  their  usual  state 
of  profound  dyspepsia. 

The  color-scheme  in  general  had  become  of  late 
one  vast  simplicity  of  drab  and  blue.  The  last  tinge 
of  verdure  had  vanished  months  ago,  except  in  culti- 
vated spots  or  small  damp  areas,  and  barren  hills 
and  clear  sky  shared  the  universe  between  them,  or 
admitted  the  sea  into  partnership  without  breaking 


258         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

the  duality  of  color.  It  was  becoming  almost  an  ob- 
session with  me,  and  I  looked  forward  with  zest  to 
the  coming  in  of  the  forest  element. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  there  was  no  prospect  of 
finding  a  lodging,  when  a  little  creek  with  a  faint 
trickle  of  water  and  a  trifle  of  pasturage  offered  the 
chance  of  camping  for  the  night.  This  was  now  an 
unusual  boon,  and  I  did  not  let  it  escape.  I  ate  my 
supper  by  the  light  of  a  moon  near  the  full,  and  with 
a  first-rate  coyote  concert  for  entertainment.  This 
was  like  old  times,  and  seemed  almost  touching,  so 
long  was  it  since  I  had  heard  one.  The  night  was 
cold,  with  a  very  heavy  dew,  but  I  found  a  few 
stumps  of  buckeye  and  made  a  fair  camp-fire.  Then, 
blanketing  and  picketing  Anton,  I  turned  in  with 
my  feet  to  the  fire,  and  peacefully  smoked  myself  to 
sleep. 

We  were  early  on  the  road  next  day,  for  I  was 
eager  to  reach  that  timbered  ridge  that  had  been 
slowly  coming  nearer.  I  guessed  that  the  Russian 
River  must  run  on  the  nearer  side,  and  an  hour's 
travel  brought  us  to  a  high  bank  overlooking  this 
fine  stream.  It  was  much  the  largest  river  that  I  had 
met  on  the  way  up  the  coast,  and  seemed  to  mark 
the  clear  climatic  difference  between  the  central  and 
southern  regions  of  the  State,  and  the  northern, 
which  may  be  considered  as  beginning  in  this  lati- 
tude. The  scene  had  an  additional  interest  from  its 
connection  with  the  brief  adventure  of  the  Russians 
on  this  part  of  the  Pacific  seaboard,  a  century  ago. 


y 


4 


RUSSIAN    RIVER  259 

At  the  mouth  of  this  river,  which  they  called  the 
Slavianka,  was  a  settlement  <»f  tlu-ir>  Bubaidiary  to 
the  principal  one  at  Fori  Ross.  I  ome  time  en- 
joying the  fine  views  up  and  down  the  handsome 

winding  stream,  whose  gleaming  surface  was  broken 
every  moment  by  the  Bash  of  leaping  fish. 

A  mile  upstream  I  found  a  platform  ferry  by 
which  we  crossed.  This  was  another  experiem 
Anton.  He  was  particularly  interested  in  .1  row- 
boat  that  happened  to  come  near  us,  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  a  creature  who  moved  his  legs  in  that 
extraordinary  horizontal  fashion  must  be  an  unmit- 
igated monster,  whom  it  would  be  wise  to  keep  <u\ 
eye  upon  until  we  got  ashore. 

A  road  along  the  north  hank  of  the  river  brought 
us  soon  hack  to  the  shore.  The  usual  sand-bar 
Mocked  the  mouth  of  the  stream,  and  huge  trec- 
trunks  lay  strewed  about  the  beach  or  were  churn- 
ing among  the  sharp  rocks  that  guard  the  coast  At 
a  microscopic  settlement  called  Jenner,  consistii 
a  small  lumber  concern  and  a  post-office,  the  road  be- 
gan to  climb  a  long  ascent  I  >airy-ranches  appeared 
at  long  intervals,  and  at  one  of  th<  -  .  when  I 
into  conversation  with  the  Italian  proprietor,  1  was 
invited  to  share  in  the  midday  macaroni.  When  it 
appeared  that  I  had  stayed  with  relatives  o(  theirs 
down  the  coast,  .1  flask  of  their  best  Chianti  wai 

duced  in  my  honor. 

Fine  vistas  opened  t«>  north  and  Bouth  .1-  we 

climbed.    The  coast   here  is  quite  similar  to  th  . 


26o        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

the  Santa  Lucia  region.  There  are  the  same  broad 
slopes  of  mountain,  marked  with  isolated  blocks  of 
timber;  the  same  broken  line  of  bay  and  cape, 
fringed  everywhere  with  islets ;  the  same  almost  op- 
pressive sense  of  the  ocean,  whether  seen  or  unseen, 
stretching  ever  in  vast  uniformity  away  to  the  west. 
Here,  however,  there  was  less  of  fog:  for  days  to- 
gether the  sea  lay  under  a  sky  of  clearest  blue, 
and  evening  after  evening  the  setting  sun  drew  a 
sword  of  blazing  brass  across  the  infinite  plain  of 
water. 

We  had  a  long  and  tiring  climb  before  we  came  at 
length  to  the  timber.  Then  we  stopped  and  rested 
long  and  deeply.  The  view  was  almost  impossibly 
perfect.  All  about  were  grouped  redwoods,  oaks, 
bays,  madronos,  and  spruces  of  magnificent  growth. 
Between  their  red  and  green  and  purple  stems 
there  stretched  to  east  and  north  a  wide  extent 
of  hilly  country  golden  with  sun-bleached  grass  or 
dark  with  purple  areas  of  forest.  To  the  west  I 
caught  glimpses  of  dazzling  sea;  and  southward  I 
looked  down  upon  the  coast  I  had  travelled  during 
that  and  the  previous  day,  brilliant  with  blue  of  deep 
and  green  of  shoal  water,  or  flashing  to  sudden  blaze 
of  surf  on  headland,  cape,  and  bay.  Before  I  was 
ready  to  move  on,  the  sun  had  set  in  an  effulgence  of 
noble  color,  rosying  the  golden  hills,  reddening  the 
great  shafts  of  the  trees,  and  for  a  few  wonderful 
moments  deepening  the  plain  of  the  sea  to  an  im- 
perial splendor  of  purple.   High  over  all,  masses  of 


OLD    FORT    ROSS  261 

flaming  crimson,  like  banners  of  archangels,  floated 
across  the  western  sky. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  I  rode  on  through  the  forest, 
and  came  at  dark  to  a  comfortable  wayside  inn  at  a 
hamlet  called  Seaview.  Here  I  stayed  tin-  night,  and 
the  next  morning  took  the  cross-road  down  to  the 
coast.  It  was  another  glorious  morning  of  Indian 
summer.  The  ocean  lay  far  below  under  a  cool 
stratum  of  fog,  while  around  us  shone  a  powerful 
sun  that  called  out  the  forest  scents  in  unusual  va- 
riety. Golden  showers  of  seed  from  the  sprucea 
drifted  down  the  shafts  of  sunlight;  squirrels,  jays, 
and  quail  were  abroad  on  pleasure  or  business;  and 
the  world  looked  as  young  as  if  it  had  been  created 
overnight. 

Three  miles  at  a  steep  descent  brought  us  to  the 
coast  at  Old  Fort  Ross.  This  was  the  principal  set- 
tlement made  by  the  Russians  on  the  California 
sea-board.  That  brief  but  interesting  passau 
history  began  with  the  building  here,  in  [8l2,o(  a 
fortified  trading-post  by  the  Russian-American  l;ur 
Company.  It  seems  plain,  from  the  strength  <>t  the 
fort,  and  its  furnishing  with  something  like  forty 
cannon,  that  there  was  a  purpose  of  holding  the  re- 
gion permanently  for  Russia,  against  the  nominal 
sovereignty  of  Spain,  whose  rule  to  the  north  ot  San 
Francisco  had  not  at  that  time  become  effective  by 
actual  settlement  The  history  of  Fort  Ross  was 
marked  by  constant  protests  from  first  the  Spanish 
and  then  the  Mexican  Government,  wrho  were  oat- 


262         CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

urally  suspicious  of  the  intentions  of  the  Russians. 
The  friction  continued  long  after  the  Russian  Gov- 
ernment, by  the  treaty  of  1824,  had  bound  itself 
against  any  acquisition  of  territory  on  this  coast  south 
of  the  memorable  "fifty-four  forty";  and  at  last,  in 
1841,  the  adventurers  were  glad  to  find  in  Captain 
Sutter  a  purchaser  for  their  troublesome  claims,  and 
to  retire  to  their  northern  possessions  in  Alaska. 

Some  reminders  of  the  Russian  incident  are  to  be 
seen.  A  part  of  the  heavy  twelve-foot  stockade  is 
still  standing,  and  the  old  church  was  in  fair  condition 
until  the  great  earthquake  of  1906  shook  it  down. 
I  found  the  roof,  with  its  quaint  cupola  and  belfry, 
intact,  though  fallen  and  resting  on  the  ground. 
The  great  hewn  joists  and  rafters  are  sound,  and  the 
hand-wrought  nails  that  spike  them  together  are  still 
doing  duty.  The  commandant's  house  (which  now 
serves  as  a  hotel  for  chance  visitors),  with  a  diminu- 
tive post-office,  a  small  wharf,  and  half  a  dozen  mis- 
cellaneous dwellings,  make  up  the  whole  of  the  place. 
The  population  consists  of  some  two  or  three  dozen 
people,  about  one-third  as  many  as  vacated  it  sev- 
enty years  ago  when  the  Russians  departed. 

A  pious  Fort  Rossian,  whose  boyhood  had  been 
spent  here,  had  undertaken  to  try  to  repair  the  old 
church,  and  had  called  upon  the  people  of  the  local- 
ity to  assemble,  on  the  day  that  I  was  there,  for  the 
purpose  of  starting  the  work.  The  appeal  seemed  to 
be  in  vain,  for  only  two  or  three  had  arrived  before  I 
left,  and  those  had  come,  I  fear,  mainly  with  an  eye 


A    NEW    PINE  263 

to  the  dance  which  had  been  promised  to  wind  up 
the  event  in  the  evening. 

About  noon  I  took  the  road,  which  now  again 
closely  followed  the  coast.  Picturesque  pines  of  the 
muricata  species  appeared,  standing  gaunt  and  wind- 
blown on  the  cliffs  or  kneeling  in  odd  postures  on 
rocky  coigns  and  headlands.  At  Timber  Cove  quan- 
tities of  railway  ties  and  tan-bark  were  piled  on  the 
bluff  awaiting  shipment,  and  in  another  pretty  little 
bay  a  steam  schooner  was  loading  with  lumber  for 
the  south.  Without  warning  a  cold  fog  came  driving 
in,  bringing  a  drop  of  thirty  degrees  of  temperature 
in  a  few  moments.  The  sea  rose  under  a  strong 
northwest  wind,  and  through  rifts  of  the  fog  I  could 
dimly  see  a  turmoil  of  surf  arising  beyond  the  black 
forms  of  rock  and  pine. 

The  road  was  over  a  bracken-covered  moorland 
with  a  sprinkling  of  small  oaks  and  madronos,  and 
broken  by  frequent  canons  dark  with  twisted  and 
tousled  redwoods.  This  tree  has  a  way  of  throwing 
out,  when  stunted,  a  thatch  of  foliage  so  close  and 
matted  as  to  be  quite  impervious  to  light.  The  effect 
of  a  company  of  these  freakish  individuals,  under 
conditions  of  storm  or  half-light,  is  weird  in  the  ex- 
treme. 

Towards  evening  we  entered  a  dense  growth  of 
pines,  and  finding  water  and  a  little  pasturage  I  de- 
termined to  camp.  The  fog  was  raw  and  the  wind 
chilly,  but  I  set  up  my  little  shelter  tent,  made  a 
rousing  fire,  and  spent  a  delightful  evening,  with  a 


264        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

symphony  of  wind  and  water  that  was  really  quite 
Wagnerian.  The  effect  was  heightened  by  the  fan- 
tastic appearance  of  the  pines,  which  showed  in 
blackest  silhouette  against  a  sky  of  murky  gray  (for 
the  moon  was  full,  though  obscured).  Their  uncanny 
shapes,  together  with  the  boom  of  surf,  the  roar  of 
wind,  the  croaking  of  frogs,  and  the  dismal  predic- 
tions of  the  owls,  combined  to  form  a  sort  of  Walpur- 
gis  Night,  that  made  a  background  for  the  wild- 
est of  dreams  when  at  last  I  turned  in  and  got  to 
sleep. 

I  broke  camp  early,  meaning  to  make  up  to  Anton 
for  his  rather  meagre  forage  by  a  good  feed  at  Stew- 
art's Point,  a  few  miles  farther  on.  The  morning  was 
foggy,  but  the  wind  had  changed  to  south  and 
smelled  decidedly  like  rain.  It  was  not  long  before 
we  were  enveloped  in  a  thick  drizzle.  The  road  led 
along  the  cliff,  and  as  the  sea  rose  with  the  increas- 
ing wind  the  scene  became  constantly  more  fascinat- 
ing, and  the  downpour  of  rain  which  soon  devel- 
oped could  not  damp  my  admiration,  though  my 
poor  Anton  showed  plainly  that  he  found  it  depress- 
ing. The  surges  came  swinging  in  with  sullen  mag- 
nificence of  gray,  to  burst  like  bombs  against  the 
cliffs,  rush  wildly  up  their  faces,  and  fall  back  in  tor- 
rents of  hail-like  spray.  The  waves  came  from  the 
northwest,  and  the  wind,  now  blowing  from  the  op- 
posite quarter,  stripped  off  the  crest  of  each  succeed- 
ing roller  in  a  wavering  veil  of  spume.  Half  a  mile 
offshore  two  little  steamers  were  beating  doggedly 


A    GALE    AND    A    FINE    SEA         265 

southward,  their  bows  plunging  every  moment  into 
a  smother  of  white  water.  In  spite  of  the  heavy  rain 
I  was  fain  to  halt  from  time  to  time  and  rejoice 
in  the  uproar,  while  my  companion,  with  no  such 
inward  glows,  stood  dripping,  drooping,  and  dis- 
gusted. 

On  my  right,  timbered  mountains  showed  mo- 
mentarily through  the  wrack,  and  were  hardly  less 
attractive  than  the  tumult  of  the  sea.  How  much 
more  interesting  this  world  becomes  when  for  a  time 
it  throws  off  the  placidity  of  age  and  returns  to  the 
passion  and  stress  of  its  younger  nature!  Few  of  us 
see  enough  of  those  episodes,  I  am  sure,  thougli  we 
may  think  we  do.  Whenever  I  meet  one  I  find  my- 
self hoping  that  it  may  yet  be  my  lot  to  pass  a  year 
or  two  in  some  region  of  almost  perpetual  storm; 
where  sunshine  will  be  a  phenomenon,  color  will  be 
reduced  to  the  all-satisfying  range  of  the  grays,  and 
sound  limited  to  the  solemn  fugue  of  wind  and 
sweeping  rain. 

An  unpleasant  result  of  the  present  rain,  however, 
was  that  it  soon  made  the  road  almost  impassable. 
The  soil  happened  to  be  the  stiff  est  kind  <>f  clay, 
which  balled  up  on  Anton's  feet,  and  made  the  1  rav- 
elling slow,  difficult,  and  annoying.  I  dismounted, 
and  led  him  mile  after  mile,  while  the  rain  poured 
down  without  cessation,  and  soaked  man,  beast, 
blankets,  saddle-bags,  and  all.  It  was  nearly  noon 
when  we  reached  Stewart's  Point,  where  there  is  a 
fair-sized  settlement,  with  store,  inn,  and   cable- 


266        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

landing.  I  saw  my  horse  dry  and  happy  with  his 
hay,  and  then  spent  an  hour  revolving  and  steam- 
ing before  the  bar-room  fire. 

The  industry  of  this  place,  as  of  all  the  country 
hereabout,  is  lumbering.  As  it  was  Sunday,  no  work 
was  going  on,  and  the  rain  had  sent  the  entire  popu- 
lation to  the  saloon,  where  three  poker  games  were 
in  progress.  Money  passed  freely,  and  by  no  means 
all  I  saw  was  as  low  as  silver.  They  were  a  cosmo- 
politan lot.  I  could  distinguish  Mexicans,  Indians, 
Irishmen,  Germans,  and  Swedes,  besides  Americans. 
The  thirst  was  general  and  unremitting,  and  the 
language  frightful,  even  for  "lumber- jacks."  I  sup- 
pose that  most  of  these  poor  fellows  saw  no  more 
harm  in  the  hideous  oaths  they  rapped  out  every 
moment  than  we  see  in  reading  the  newspaper. 
Rheumatic  twinges  sent  me  early  to  bed,  and  I 
awoke  to  find  a  clear  sun  shining  and  an  Indian 
squaw  looking  seriously  in  at  my  window. 

I  left  early,  but  not  before  a  mild  game  of  poker 
was  under  way.  The  wind  was  still  rough,  and  the 
sea  made  a  fine  spectacle,  though  now  a  glory  of 
blue  had  succeeded  to  the  greater  splendor  of  gray. 
There  were  lovely  little  bays  with  bright  seas  thun- 
dering in ;  vistas  of  headland  beyond  headland  where 
the  white  sea- wolves  were  tearing  incessantly  at  the 
land;  and  everywhere  the  cliffs  were  ranked  with 
green  and  singing  pines.  I  passed  one  or  two  cot- 
tages gay  with  cosmos  and  chrysanthemums,  these 
latter  not  the  gorgeous  triumphs  of  the  up-to-date 


A  PLACE  OF  GLOOM,  GUALALA  267 

florist,  but  the  old,  simple,  heart-entangling  clusters 

of  yellow,  magenta,  and  golden  brown. 

Twelve  miles,  and  I  came  to  a  handsome  stream, 
deep,  slow,  wide,  and  green,  the  Gualala  River.  The 
little  town  of  the  same  name,  on  the  north  bank,  w  as 
depressed  and  depressing,  most  of  its  building  3<  \<  «ed 
and  decaying.  Five  years  ago  the  lumber-mill, 
which  was  the  be-all  and  end-all  of  the  place,  was 
burned  down,  and  Gualala  threw  up  its  hands  and 
sank  into  despair.  The  barber-postmaster-shoe- 
maker, with  whom  I  had  business  in  his  official  ca- 
pacity, observed  as  he  lathered  a  gloomy  put  r<  m  that 
this  was  the  last  time:  he  had  "had  enough  of  this 
derned  place,"  and  was  going  to  "light  out  for  sonic 
liver  burg."  When  I  inquired  where  he  meant  to  go, 
he  paused  a  moment  with  suspended  razor  to  con- 
sider: then  answered,  with  sardonic  emphasis,  that 
he  guessed  he  would  go  to  Greenland. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Big  Bert  —  Odd  names  —  The  lowland  fir  —  Wild  flowers  —  Point 
Arena:  the  lot  of  lumber  towns  —  The  Alder  Creek  dispute — ■ 
Greenwood  —  Gray  weather  —  Autumn  colors  —  Navarro,  a  de- 
serted village  —  A  confidence  concerning  Albion  —  Little  River: 
blessings  on  that  little  girl!  —  Mendocino  City  —  Fort  Bragg  — 
Rain  again  —  Scotch  hospitality  —  A  fine  surf  —  Sunday  at 
Hardy  Creek. 

IN  passing  the  Gualala  I  had  left  Sonoma  for  Men- 
docino County.  At  first  I  thought  I  would  fish 
this  tempting-looking  river,  and  stay  the  night  in  the 
town,  but  the  gloom  of  the  place  was  rather  terrify- 
ing, and  I  went  on  to  see  what  the  next  stopping- 
place  might  offer.  A  mile  or  two  brought  me  to  it, 
the  usual  inn-saloon  combination,  kept  by  a  massive 
Italian  from  whom  the  place  had  received  the  name 
"Big  Bert." 

He  was  a  hearty  fellow,  his  wife  comely  and  smil- 
ing, and  the  house  clean  and  comfortable.  I  enjoyed 
my  eggs  and  macaroni  with  these  good  people,  and 
passed  a  pleasant  evening  by  their  fireside  under  the 
eyes  of  the  late  King  Humbert  and  his  consort,  whose 
portraits  looked  down  from  the  wall.  After  we  had 
all  gone  to  bed  a  party  of  musical  Italianos  arrived 
with  accordions,  and  hammered  for  admission.  It 
was  almost  daylight  before  the  festivities  ended  with 
"O  Italia!"  and  a  final  catastrophe  of  glassware. 

The  same  picturesque  coast  continued  next  day. 


ODD    NAMES  269 

Castellated  islets  and  peninsulas  alternated  every 
mile  with  romantic  little  bays.  Hereand  therealong 
the  cliff  tan-bark  and  railway  tics  were  piled.  The 
map  of  the  coast  is  thickly  marked  with  names,  but 
most  of  them  relate  to  lumbering  settlements  that 
have  vanished  with  the  marketable  timber  of  the 
immediate  locality.  Some  of  these  tiny  places  bore 
odd  names :  for  instance,  during  the  morning  I  passed 
Rough  and  Ready,  and  Hard  Scratch.  Others,  less 
striking  but  more  attractive,  were  Anchor  Bay, 
Signal  Port,  Fish  Rock,  and  Schooner  Gulch. 

It  was  Election  Day,  and  among  the  amendments 
to  the  State  Constitution  to  be  voted  on  was  one  to 
introduce  Woman  Suffrage.  From  several  elec- 
tioneering buggies,  driven  by  capable-looking  wo- 
men, that  passed  me,  I  guessed  that  Mendocino 
County,  far  as  it  is  out  of  the  general  ruck  of  poli- 
tics, was  not  to  be  left  out  of  account  in  the  Great 
Sex  Revolution. 

In  the  canons  hereabout  I  began  to  meet  a  new- 
coniferous  tree,  the  lowland  fir  (Abies  grandis).  It 
resembles  so  much  the  white  fir  of  the  mountain  re- 
gions of  the  State  that  I  mistook  it  at  first  tor  that 
tree.  Like  theother  members  of  the  family,  it  suffers 
much  distortion  from  the  winds  in  these  exposed  po- 
sitions, and  shows  little  of  that  aristocratic  trimnesfl 
which  is  such  a  feature  of  the  tir  family  in  general. 

In  token  of  the  higher  latitude  and  moister  cli- 
mate that  I  was  entering  1  had  lately  noticed  wild 
violets  growing   here   and    there    by    the   roadside; 


270        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

whether  belated  from  last  season  or  in  advance  of 
the  next,  I  could  not  tell.  To-day  I  met  also  a  num- 
ber of  our  handsome  poppies  (Eschscholtzia) ,  and  of 
another  very  beautiful  flower,  new  to  me,  much 
like  the  rein-orchis  of  our  mountains. 

To-day's  march  was  an  easy  one  of  only  fifteen 
miles.  About  noon  I  rode  into  the  town  of  Point 
Arena,  and  put  up  at  the  only  hotel  that  remains 
open  for  business  out  of  some  half-dozen  whose 
signs  I  met  as  I  passed  up  the  street.  The  place 
seems  to  be  threatened  with  the  fate  of  Gualala.  A 
townsman  of  forty  years'  standing  reported  that  it 
now  had  fewer  people  than  when  he  had  come  there. 
But  it  is  the  common  lot  of  lumbering  settlements; 
they  are  suicides  by  profession.  Point  Arena  is  still 
the  headquarters  of  a  considerable  lumber  company, 
but  probably  they,  in  turn,  are  dependent  upon  the 
caprices  of  greater  financial  interests,  and  I  would 
not  give  much  for  the  town's  place  on  the  map  twenty 
years  hence. 

The  country  here  becomes  rather  more  open,  with 
a  wider  strip  of  level  land  running  back  from  the 
shore.  For  some  distance  next  day  I  passed  through 
a  region  of  farms  that  occupy  the  low,  broad  valley 
of  the  Garcia  River.  But  before  long  the  high  tim- 
bered ridges  again  drew  to  the  coast.  A  few  miles  to 
the  northwest  of  the  town  is  the  headland  of  Point 
Arena.  In  the  distance  I  could  see  the  tall  white 
shaft  of  the  lighthouse,  recently  built  to  replace  the 
former  one,  destroyed  by  the  earthquake  of  1906. 


THE    ALDER    CREEK    DISPUTE     271 

A  place  with  the  ambitious  name  of  Manchester 
proved  to  consist  of  six  cottages,  a  store  and  ; 
office,  and  a  picturesque  weather-beaten  church  on 
a  hill.  Here  I  met  one  of  the  principal  actor-  in  what 
promised  at  the  time  to  become  a  notorious  affair.  I 
had  read  in  newspapers,  months  before,  of  a  feud 
which  had  arisen  between  the  settlers  on  Alder 
Creek  (the  next  creek  to  the  northward)  and  a  lum- 
ber company  operating  in  the  region.  This  man  was 
one  of  the  settlers.  I  think  he  at  first  suspected  from 
my  semi-military  equipment  that  I  might  have  some 
relation  to  the  dispute.  At  least,  he  accosted  me 
when  we  met  on  the  road,  and  finding  that  I  \\  as 
only  an  interested  member  of  the  public,  he  gave,  at 
my  request,  his  own  version  of  the  case.  It  was  to 
this  effect:  — 

In  the  year  1891  a  number  of  squatters  came  into 
the  Alder  Creek  country.  The  land  at  that  time  had 
not  been  surveyed,  and  so  was  not  technically  open 
to  settlement.  Two  years  later  the  tract  was  de- 
clared open,  and  the  men  in  a  body  went  down  to 
San  Francisco  to  "file"  on  their  respective  claims 
according  to  law.  They  wire  met  with  the  state- 
ment that  their  claims  could  not  be  entered,  as  the 
land  in  point  was  covered  by  a  prior  claim.  The 
squatters,  suspicious,  rightly  or  wrongly,  of  the  - 
faith  of  the  statement,  and  thinking  I  for  such  things 
have  happened)  that  the  official  might  be  simply 
the  mouthpiece  of  some  lumber  "interests"  whose 
eyes  were  on  this  fine  tract  of  timber,  brought  Buil 


272        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

to  clear  up  the  point.  That  suit,  after  the  lapse  of 
eighteen  years,  had  not  been  decided. 

The  men  meanwhile  lived  quietly  on  their  claims, 
until  latterly  the  lumber  company  in  question  had 
raised  a  definite  claim  to  the  land,  and  had  under- 
taken to  eject  the  settlers  by  force.  The  latter  held 
their  ground.  The  company  thereupon  hired  a  score 
or  so  of  "gun  fighters,"  and  brought  them  upon  the 
disputed  territory;  and  for  six  weeks  (at  the  time 
of  our  conversation)  it  had  been  touch-and-go  day 
by  day,  with  prospects  of  bloodshed  on  a  consider- 
able scale  at  any  moment.  Two  weeks  before,  my 
informant,  acting  for  the  squatters,  had  petitioned 
the  authorities  at  Washington  that  a  force  of  deputy 
marshals  be  sent  to  keep  the  peace,  pending  a  legal 
settlement  of  the  quarrel ;  which  seemed  to  me  a  rea- 
sonable request.  When  I  met  him  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Point  Arena  in  hope  of  hearing  that  something 
was  to  be  done. 

These  were  the  facts  as  he  gave  them.  I  do  not, 
of  course,  vouch  for  them.  But  what  a  request  to 
have  to  make !  Here  were  thirty  men  or  thereabouts 
at  gun's  point  for  six  weeks,  and  the  case  notorious; 
yet  no  step  had  been  taken  by  any  authority,  State 
or  Federal,  to  prevent  bloodshed.  It  does  not  sound 
a  creditable  episode  to  occur  in  the  United  States  in 
the  year  191 1. 

Alder  Creek  itself,  where  I  forded  it  close  to  the 
mouth,  looked  peaceful  enough,  with  two  fly-fishers 
and  an  automobile  that  had  "gone  dead"  in  mid- 


GREENWOOD  273 

stream.  The  four  passengers,  up  to  their  knees  in 
water,  were  working,  literally  like  beavers,  to  push 
the  heavy  machine  up  the  bank.  I  saw  no  look  of 
sympathy  for  them  in  Anton's  expressive  eye. 

Streams  are  plentiful  all  along  this  timbered  coast. 
At  almost  every  mile  we  crossed  some  creek  or  gulch 
or  river,  and  the  views  up  these  canons  were  always 
delightful.  Narrow-gauge  railways  have  been  built 
a  few  miles  up  many  of  them,  to  bring  the  lumber 
down  to  the  coast  at  one  of  the  numerous  landings. 
Both  railways  and  landings  in  many  cases  are  dis- 
used, and  only  serve  to  illustrate  the  folly  of  the 
hasty  exploitation  which  the  forests  of  the  country 
in  general  have  suffered. 

At  Elk  River  a  mill  and  railway  were  in  full  opera- 
tion, and  the  wide  stream  was  blocked  with  logs  that 
were  awaiting  their  turn  under  the  screaming  saws. 
Two  miles  farther  on,  we  entered  the  little  town  of 
Greenwood,  and  finding  an  inn  (conducted,  like  most 
of  the  business  of  the  place,  by  the  lumber  com- 
pany of  the  locality)  we  put  up  for  the  night.  The 
house  was  rather  dismal,  but  things  were  enlivened 
by  the  pretty  Swedish  girl  who  waited  at  table.  She 
spoke  English  with  difficulty,  and  evidently  was  new 
to  her  work,  but  she  took  such  innocent  enjoymenl 
in  her  own  awkwardness  that  the  whole  table  was 
put  into  the  best  of  humor. 

The  next  morning  was  a  specially  delightful  one, 
genial,  yet  pensive,  even  "soulful":  one  of  those  days 
when,  as  some  one  has  said,  "our  very  sensations  turn 


274        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

to  reverie."  The  tree  armies  that  crowded  the  eastern 
ridge  stood  in  sooty  blackness  against  a  sky  of 
thoughtful  gray,  yellowed  with  stray  shafts  from  the 
hidden  sun.  A  gently  breathing  sea  broke  in  quiet 
thunder  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  or  licked  and  coiled 
about  the  dark  rocks  and  islets  with  a  sort  of  play- 
ful but  ponderous  inertia.  Once  or  twice  a  vessel,  far 
out,  showed  like  a  phantom  through  the  haze.  I  find, 
somehow,  like  Thoreau,  that  "my  spirits  infallibly 
rise  in  proportion  to  the  outward  dreariness";  and, 
dark  as  the  day  was,  my  joy  rose  another  point 
whenever  we  passed  into  the  denser  shade  of  the 
canons.  I  suppose  I  was  born  under  some  gloomy 
aspect  of  planets :  at  least,  if  not,  I  must  totally  and 
forever  disbelieve  in  astrology.  Now  and  then  we 
passed  a  little  farm,  and  men  at  work  in  the  fields 
would  stop  to  wonder  at  the  sight  of  a  solitary 
traveller  riding  along  and  scribbling  as  he  went,  or 
reining  up  to  gaze  raptly  about  him  or  up  into 
the  sky.  There  seemed  a  peculiar  beauty  in  the  sal- 
low, faded  herbage,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  flicker,  al- 
ways a  favorite  sound,  came  to-day  with  an  added 
thrill. 

It  was  by  now  full  autumn,  and  the  vegetation 
had  taken  on  those  warm  and  thoughtful  hues  that 
make  the  season  so  pleasing.  How  gracious  are 
these  deep  and  sensitive  tones,  —  the  gravity  of 
umber,  the  dignity  of  sienna,  the  mild  magnificence 
of  madder,  the  serenity  of  gray !  One  may  call  spring 
the  lyric,  summer  the  epic,  and  winter  the  dirge  of 


NAVARRO,    A    DESERTED    VILLAGE  275 

the  color  year.  Autumn  is  the  elegy,  the  quiet  re- 
consideration, the  rich  maturity  of  experience. 

After  passing  a  tiny  settlement  bearing  the  Dick- 
ensian  name  of  Cuffey's  Cove,  a  few  miles  brought 
me  to  the  Navarro  River  and  a  deserted  village  of 
gray  and  weathered  houses.  I  call  it  deserted,  for  I 
saw  no  one  about  the  place,  nor  smoke  rising  from 
any  chimney  in  token  of  human  life  and  comfort  or 
the  baking  of  bread ;  though  a  few  skirmishing  pigs 
and  chickens  seemed  to  imply  at  least  one  inhabi- 
tant. The  situation  was  beautiful,  —  a  deep  valley 
with  a  wide,  winding  river;  and  the  eucalyptus  trees 
anddracaena  palms  in  the  gardens  showed  the  owners' 
expectation  of  remaining.  But  lumber  and  lumber 
companies  had  ruled  otherwise.  Most  of  the  build- 
ings were  out  of  plumb;  the  church  leaned  at  an 
alarming  angle;  and  a  loon  swimming  leisurely  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream  seemed  to  certify  the  soli- 
tude of  the  place. 

Concerning  the  next  place  I  came  to,  I  invite  the 
reader  to  share  a  little  confidence.  My  map  gave  its 
name  as  Albion,  and,  Englishman  as  I  am,  I  felt  a 
particular  interest  in  the  place  that  bore  that  name. 
So  it  was  with  something  like  horror  that  I  noted  tin- 
two  or  three  rickety  shacks,  the  wreck  of  a  wharf, 
the  former  store,  now  a  dirty  saloon  with  two  pro- 
fane old  men  loafing  on  the  porch,  and  the  hangdog 
"barkeep"  playing  cards  with  a  couple  of  boys 
within.  Could  this  be  a  parable  of  my  native  land/ 
It  was  quite  a  shock,  and  I  went  on  not  a  little  de- 


/ 


276        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

pressed.  A  mile  farther,  and  I  turned  a  corner;  — 
behold !  a  fine  little  town,  all  buzzing  and  humming 
with  life,  steam  whizzing,  saws  shrieking,  locomotive 
bustling  about  with  cars  of  lumber,  trim  schooner 
at  wharf,  men  wiping  perspiring  brows,  and  every- 
thing thriving.  This  was  the  place,  after  all:  the 
other  was  Whitesboro',  when  it  was  anything.  And 
down  at  the  river's  mouth  was  a  little  purple  bay,  all 
a-glitter  with  wind  and  surf.  It  was  a  microcosm  of 
the  real  Albion,  and  I  rejoiced  at  the  sight,  as  I  hope, 
friendly  American  reader,  you  would  have  done  if 
the  circumstance  had  happened  to  you  on  your  trav- 
els, meeting  some  foreign  Columbia  or  Washing- 
ton. 

The  piece  of  coast  between  Albion  and  the  next 
place,  Little  River,  seemed  to  me  almost  the  finest 
I  had  seen.  Such  headlands,  black  and  wooded,  such 
purple  seas,  such  vivid  blaze  of  spray,  such  fiords 
and  islets,  —  a  painter  would  be  ravished  with  it. 
Little  River  itself  is  a  pretty,  straggling  village  of 
high  gabled  houses  with  quaint  dormers  and  win- 
dows, and  red  roses  clambering  all  about.  Apple 
trees  were  gleaming  with  ruddy  fruit,  and  the  pines 
about  the  school-house  were  full  of  chattering  chil- 
dren out  for  recess.  One  little  girl  of  eleven  or  twelve, 
not  specially  pretty,  but  childlike  and  therefore 
lovely,  smiled  up  at  me  as  I  passed,  and  wished  me 
"Good-morning."  Heaven  bless  that  little  girl! 
Such  a  thing  is  better  than  a  thousand  dollars  to  a 
bachelor. 


MENDOCINO   CITY  277 

Then  Mendocino  City  came  into  view,  making  a 
brave  show  with  its  red  and  white  houses,  schools, 
and  churches,  ranged  on  a  long  promontory  al><>\  e  a 
bay  at  the  mouth  of  Big  River.  Here  I  stopped  lor 
an  hour  to  give  Anton  a  rest  and  a  feed  at  the  stable. 
He  had  travelled  excellently  to-day,  cantering  gaily 
along  without  so  much  as  a  suggestion  from  me. 
His  respected  predecessor,  Chino,  never  once  of- 
fered to  do  such  a  thing  of  his  own  free  will,  and  it 
was  not  always  easy  to  persuade  him  to  it. 

As  I  walked  about  the  town,  I  noticed  bills  posted 
with  the  announcement,  "The  Albion  Lumber- 
Jacks  will  give  a  Masked  Ball  on  Wednesday  Even- 
ing. Prizes  for  Best  Costumes,  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men. Come  one,  come  a  Thousand,  and  have  a 
Bully  Good  Time.  Supper  at  12.15."  I  hoped  that 
the  thousand  would  come  and  the  good  time  be  bul- 
lier  than  their  best  expectations. 

Some  four  miles  farther  on,  I  passed  a  short  dis- 
tance east  of  Point  Cabrillo,  with  its  small  light- 
house. Another  mile  brought  me  to  Casper  River, 
which  I  found  blocked  with  great  logs,  and  agile 
lumbermen  with  "peavies" extricating  them  <nn-  by 
one.  The  river  above  the  little  town  looked  very 
inviting,  flowing  slow  and  wide  between  high  walls 
of  timber.  Again  I  lamented  that  the  difficulty  of 
fodder  for  my  horse  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
explore  it,  or  even  to  camp  for  the  night.  I  darkness 
was  falling  as  we  passed  through  the  village  ol  Noyo, 
lying  prettily  on  a  neck  of  land  bet  wren  Hare  and 


278        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

Noyo  Creeks.  Anton  was  tired,  and  I  would  willingly 
have  stopped  if  there  had  been  any  inn  at  the  place. 
As  it  was,  I  had  to  urge  him  on  a  few  miles  farther, 
and  it  was  after  nightfall  when  we  came  wearily  into 
the  thriving  little  town  of  Fort  Bragg,  the  adver- 
tisements of  whose  enterprising  merchants  had  ap- 
peared on  the  roadside  fences  for  the  last  fifty  miles. 

It  was  a  dull  morning,  with  a  southerly  wind  that 
threatened  rain,  when  I  left  Fort  Bragg  next  day. 
The  sea  was  heavy,  and  the  coast  was  obscured  at  a 
short  distance  by  a  haze  of  flying  spray.  Before  I 
reached  the  hamlet  of  Cleone,  a  few  miles  up,  it 
was  raining,  with  no  inn  in  prospect  for  fifteen  miles 
unless  I  turned  back  to  Fort  Bragg.  This  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  do,  so  pushed  on  in  hope  of  some 
chance  shelter. 

The  coast  north  of  Fort  Bragg  runs  for  several 
miles  in  dunes  of  sand.  In  places  these  are  fully 
fifty  feet  high,  and  I  was  told  that  they  are  encroach- 
ing on  the  land  at  the  rate  of  several  rods  a  year. 
Coming  to  a  ranch  lying  in  the  rear  of  these  sand- 
hills, and  the  rain  giving  no  sign  of  ceasing,  I  deter- 
mined to  inquire  the  prospects  for  accommodation. 
The  good  Scotch  people  received  me  as  though  I  had 
been  an  expected  friend;  and  as  the  rain  continued,  I 
spent  both  day  and  night  with  them.  It  was  rare 
and  pleasant  to  hear  grace  before  meat  said  by  the 
father,  and  the  good  fare  seemed  all  the  better  for 
the  observance. 

The  morning  came  fair,  and  I  took  the  road  with 


A    FINE    SURF  279 

friendly  farewells  from  the  kind  Scots.  A  warm  sun 
drew  a  haze  from  the  wet  ground  and  their  finest 
scents  from  the  grateful  vegetation.  For  some  dis- 
tance the  sea  was  hidden  l>y  hills  of  sand,  but  the 
roll  of  heavy  surf  reverberated  from  a  mile  away.  At 
Ten  Mile  River  a  rocky  coast  again  began,  the  road 
along  the  cliff-edge  aflFording  a  fine  spectacle  of  green 
combers,  black  rocks,  and  creamy  smother  of  spray. 
Far  to  the  north  I  caught  glimpses  of  tin-  Humboldt 
coast  as  it  ran  out  westward. 

Hour  after  hour  the  hills  on  my  right  rose  crested 
continuously  with  serried  conifers,  while  to  the  left 
sounded  ever  the  rush  and  mutter  of  the  surge.  The 
surf  here  was  particularly  fine,  with  six  or  seven  long 
white  lines  marching  always  to  the  attack.  Where- 
ever  a  rock  was  encountered,  the  effect  was  as 
though,  in  a  battle,  a  man  here  and  there  threw  up 
his  hands  and  fell,  while  his  comrades  closed  Up  and 
pushed  on  unchecked. 

Anton's  steady  pace  and  the  monotonous  roar  of 
water  drew  me  into  a  kind  of  dream  in  which  I 
seemed  to  see  the  ships  of  the  great  explorer-  of  this 
coast  as  they  passed  in  the  offing.  I  imagined  rap- 
tains  and  men  gazing  curiously  at  the  lonely  coast, 
speculating  upon  the  inhabitant-,  noting  eagerly 
every  curve  of  bay  and  height  <»!  forbidding  cliff, 
scanning  rock  and  surf,  and  wondering  at  the  un- 
broken forest  that  ran  for  league  on  league  along  the 
mountain  horizon.  The  fascination  of  the  explorer'- 
life  is  an  easy  thing  to  understand. 


280        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

About  noon  I  passed  the  little  settlement  of  West- 
port.  Huge  piles  of  planks  and  ties  were  stacked 
ready  for  shipping,  and  a  coasting  steamer  lay  a  mile 
offshore  waiting  her  chance  to  run  in  for  loading.  At 
the  mouth  of  almost  every  creek  along  this  coast 
there  is  some  tiny  lumber  settlement,  and  here  and 
there  beside  the  road  were  piles  of  ties  that  had 
been  brought  down  the  rough  tracks  that  I  saw 
leading  off  into  the  forest. 

A  long  steep  grade  at  length  turned  inland.  From 
the  summit  I  looked  down  through  a  screen  of 
dwarfed  firs  and  redwoods  upon  the  busy  little  town 
of  Hardy  Creek.  It  was  only  mid-afternoon,  but  the 
situation  and  the  neat  hotel  looked  so  attractive 
that  I  determined  to  put  up  for  the  night  and  the  fol- 
lowing day,  which  would  be  Sunday.  The  place  con- 
sists of  a  score  or  two  of  cottages  scattered  along  the 
bottom  of  a  deep  canon  up  which  runs  a  little  rail- 
way. The  canon's  mouth,  where  a  small  stream 
flows  out,  was  filled  with  a  triangle  of  bluest  sea.  I 
climbed  up  the  hillside  at  evening  and  bathed  in  a 
fiery  glow  of  sunset  that  lighted  up  the  stately  trees 
as  if  by  a  conflagration. 

Here  I  passed  a  quiet  Sunday  in  the  ever-satisfy- 
ing companionship  of  trees.  It  was  the  15th  of  Oc- 
tober and  the  day  on  which  the  quail-shooting  sea- 
son opens :  consequently  the  male  population  of  the 
place  had  betaken  themselves  early  to  the  hills. 
Only  one  or  two  old  fellows  haunted  the  veranda  of 
the  hotel  and  poisoned  the  sweetness  of  the  day  with 


SUNDAY  AT  HARDY  CREEK   281 

a  contest  of  fancy  profanity.     In   the  evening  I 

walked  clown  to  the  mouth  of  the  canon  and  came 
upon  the  three  saloons  which  compete  for  the  v. 
of  the  lumber-jacks  of  Hardy  Creek.  Squads  of  ilu-ir 
patrons  were  lurching  and  howling  from  door  to  door. 
I  think  I  am  no  fanatic:  yet  I  belie\  e  1  could  lot  »k  oil 
quite  cheerfully  if  some  retributive  disaster  would 
ruin  the  harpies  who  suck  these  poor  fellows  so  un- 
mercifully. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Forest  and  foxgloves  —  Usal  —  A  warm  climb  —  Kenny's:  a  free- 
and-easy  reception  —  The  autumn  woods  —  Entering  Humboldt 
County  —  Dry  climatic  belts  —  The  King's  Peak  Range  —  The 
Mattole  Valley  —  Yews  —  The  village  of  Petrolia:  reminders  of 
earthquake  —  Cape  Mendocino,  a  salient  point:  its  lighthouse  — 
A  sunset  —  Capetown  —  The  Bear  River  Range  —  Cedars  — 
Gentle  teamsters  —  The  Sitka  spruce  —  Ferndale  —  Eel  River: 
an  official  "  hold-up"  —  Humboldt  Bay  —  Eureka,  the  capital  of 
northern  California:  its  prospects  and  history. 

The  next  morning  brought  another  lovely  day  of 
autumn  weather.  The  road  now  led  up  the 
mountain  among  the  timber,  of  which,  although  the 
best  had  long  ago  been  cut,  the  second  growth  was 
fine  enough  to  be  delightful  to  any  tree-lover.  It 
was  made  up  of  redwood,  spruce,  and  some  lowland 
fir,  with  smaller  growth  of  madrono  and  tan-bark 
oak,  and  an  underbrush  of  barberry,  huckleberry, 
and  rhododendron,  the  last,  to  my  regret,  long  past 
blooming.  Reaching  the  crest,  I  looked  directly  over 
to  the  mountains  of  Humboldt,  ridging  up  in  mag- 
nificent blue  of  timber.  A  lake-like  cup  of  sea  lay 
in  middle  distance,  and  in  the  forested  foreground 
rose  huge  and  rugged  stems  of  redwood. 

A  long  descent  led  to  the  abandoned  settlement  of 
Rockport.  I  saw  nothing  there  alive  but  a  few  pigs 
rooting  under  the  old  pear  and  apple  trees,  and  num- 
bers of  frisky  little  trout  practising  somersaults  in 


I  I IREST    AND    Ft  »\<  .I.(»\  i  s 

the  ripples  of  the  cre<  k.  It  was  a  pl< 

find   foxgloves   growing  hereabout,      actual   i 

purple-blotched  foxgloves,  Buch  as  I  last  aaw  in  the 

lanes  of  Sum  >  and  I  tevon.  They  wi 

in   proper  company,   among   a   tangle  of   bronze 

bracken,  green  and  crimson  brambles,  ha 

purple-headed  thistles.  Such  a  meeting  would  v.. inn 

the  heart  of  any  traveller,  and  it  called  f<>r  all  my 

determination  to  pa--  the  place  without  campii 

After  ten  miles  him;,  of  very  hilly  road,  varii  d  be- 
tween cliff  and  forest,  I  came  down  by  .1  I":',  grade 
to  a  minute  hamlet  in  a  deep  r.t\  ine,  with  the  \ 
sounding  name  of   I  sal.    Precipitous  hills  rose  all 
around,  except  where  Usal  Creek  h  way  out 

to  the  sea.    It  was  mid-afternoon,  and  u<-  were  l*>th 
tired  with  the  heat  and  climbing,  90  I  was  mind 
put  up,  instead  of  tackling  the  l<  p  climb  thai 

showed  ahead.   Meeting  a  man  witl  d  gun,  I 

inquired  the  number  of  miles  to  the  nexl  stop] 
place,  n<>t  over  ten,  I  knew.  "Fourteen,"  he  an- 
swered.  I  judged  by  tin- odd  miles  thai  he  was  the 
innkeeper,  and  resolved  to  goon  rather  than  take 
bis  bluff. 

\Y<    entered  now  .t  wonderful  the 

finest  [  had  seen,  and  evidend)  virgin,  i 
ii<>  mark  of  either  cutting  or  fire.  The  heat,  I 
was  bo  great,  with  w  much  humidity,  thai  I  had 
lit  tie  spirit  f<  t  <  ibeen  ation;  and  once  or  h» 

\nt<>n  up  the  St  I  •    -illy  th<  1 

sunstroke   was   imminent.     .'. 


284        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

haustion,  and  reeked  with  perspiration  beyond  any- 
thing I  had  seen  in  the  midsummer  heat  of  the  valleys 
farther  south.  It  was  an  immense  relief  when  even- 
ing shades  came  with  delicious  temperature,  and  I 
rode  on  leisurely  through  the  grateful  gloom,  catch- 
ing glimpses  through  forest  windows  of  a  gorgeous 
sunset  that  dulled  and  died  imperceptibly  into  the 
clear  indigo  of  nightfall. 

It  was  quite  dark  before  the  barking  of  dogs  her- 
alded our  approach  to  an  old  ranch-house,  where  I 
was  received  with  rough  hospitality  by  the  successor 
of  the  original  Kenny  whose  name  the  place  bears. 
When  I  entered  the  house,  a  freckled  tomboy  of  five, 
who  was  in  process  of  being  undressed  before  the  fire 
and  had  reached  the  stage  that  immediately  pre- 
cedes the  nightgown,  came  charging  and  butting  at 
me  with  her  tousled  head,  declaring  that  she  was 
going  to  cut  off  my  ears.  Such  a  free-and-easy  recep- 
tion could  not  fail  to  put  a  gentleman  at  his  ease,  and 
did  not  need  her  father's  admiring  apology,  "You 
must  n't  mind  the  little  omadhaun,  surr.  She  's  a 
great  gurrl,  is  Soosan,  whativerr  way  you  take  herr." 

The  way  next  morning  continued  through  the 
same  fine  forest,  varied  with  occasional  but  more 
distant  vistas  of  ocean.  Again  the  day  was  hot,  and 
we  soon  fell  into  a  saunter  which  allowed  us  to  give 
some  attention  to  side  interests,  mine  mainly  botan- 
ical, Anton's  more  of  the  appetite.  Autumn  was 
abroad,  with  her  palette  charged  with  all  manner 
of   sober  and  gorgeous  hues.    The  poison-oak  was 


THE   AUTUMN   WOODS  285 

especially  noticeable,  flowing  in  every  fine  grada- 
tion from  palest  lemon,  through  chrome  yellow, 
ashy  rose,  and  crimson,  oil  into  dark  magnificent 
dragon's  blood.  Madronos  spread  here  and  there  a 
spray  of  brilliant  scarlet,  and  their  smooth  red-brown 
stems  broke  startlingly  athwart  the  purple  columns 
of  the  redwoods.  Huckleberries  were  plentiful  and 
seductive,  and  I  was  only  sorry  thai  they  were  1. 
congenial  to  my  companion's  palate  as  to  my  own. 
Even  the  foliage  of  this  charming  plant  is  ><  >  \ 
ous  and  dainty  that  one  would  think  it  might  be 
brewed  into  some  healthful  sort  of  beer.  Now  and 
then  a  group  of  maples  shone  from  some  hollow  in 
pale  glory  of  gold.  Acorns  pattered  and  cones  came 
softly  thumping  down  at  every  push  of  wind.  The 
forest  sounds  were  always  interesting  to  Anton, 
who  glanced  from  side  to  side  with  evident  enjoy- 
ment, and  seemed  to  be  comparing  this  country 
with  his  native  Arizona,  to  the  disadvantage  ol  tin- 
latter. 

In  a  clearing  I  noticed  a  deserted  house  that  was 
formerly  a  wayside  inn.  The  proprietor  had  BOme 
time  ago  shot  one  of  his  guests  in  a  quarrel,  and  had 
gone  into  retirement  for  a  time,  owing,  probably,  to 
the  unfortunate  falling-olT  of  business  that  would 
follow  the  incident. 

During  the  afternoon  we  (  from  M<  ■ 

into  Humboldt  County,  the  dividing  line  being  the 
fortieth  parallel  of  latitude.  Although  the  forty- 
second   parallel   was   recognized   as    the   northern 


286        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

boundary  of  Mexico's  territory  at  the  transfer  of 
1846,  the  practical  disappearance  of  Spanish  names 
from  the  map  some  distance  to  the  south  of  where  I 
now  was,  is  a  mark  of  the  actual  limit  of  Spanish  and 
Mexican  settlement. 

The  country  here,  for  a  short  distance,  showed  the 
marks  of  a  drier  climate,  and  the  brush  included 
many  plants  not  found  elsewhere  so  far  north.  A 
mountain  over  which  the  road  passed  at  this  point 
is  called  Chamise  Mountain,  from  the  common 
name  given  to  the  dry  brush  growths  of  the  southern 
part  of  the  State.  The  moisture-loving  redwoods 
ceased  abruptly  as  we  crossed  a  ridge,  while  the 
tracks  of  deer  were  unusually  plentiful. 

By  sundown  we  came  to  a  lonely  ranch-house  in 
an  amphitheatre  of  spruce-covered  hills.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  this  secluded  place  was  until 
lately  a  post-ofnce,  with  the  name  of  Frank.  Here  I 
found  lodging  for  self  and  partner  with  pleasant 
people,  and  in  the  morning  continued  on  my  way 
by  a  road  paralleling  the  coast  at  two  or  three  miles' 
distance.  Shelter  Cove,  a  lumber-shipping  point  on 
a  pretty  bay,  lay  on  a  side  road  to  the  west.  Here 
again  the  land  lies  in  a  belt  of  drier  climate,  and  I 
found  a  scattering  growth  of  the  knob-cone  pine,  a 
tree  whose  liking  is  all  for  arid  regions.  These  indi- 
viduals were  unusually  full  of  cones ;  even  little  pine- 
lings  of  two  or  three  feet  height  had  taken  thought 
for  the  propagation  of  their  race. 

Anton  was  not  in  good  form  to-day.  I  had  to  keep 


THE    KING'S    PEAK    RANGE         287 

up  a  constant  hauling  when  leading  him  up  <>r  down 
the  steep  hills,  and  a  chronic  drumming  of  heels 
when  riding.   It  was  my  habit,  when  the  hauling 

came  too  arduous,  to  notify  him  in  -<>  many  words 
that  I  should  mount  and  ride  if  he  did  not  d<>  better. 
If  there  was  no  improvement,  "All  right,  Anton: 
just  as  you  say,"  I  added;  then  got  into  the  saddle 
without  further  argument.  Anton  quite  understood 
this  programme.  Often  the  warning  took  effect,  but 
in  the  other  case  he  would  look  at  me  with  soft  re- 
proach,  heave  a  profound  sigh,  and  break  into  a  tr<»t 
which  might  last  for  five  minutes. 

To-day  it  was  continual  climbing,  either  up  or 
down,  and  we  toiled  on  hour  after  hour  in  rather  low 
spirits.  The  road  had  turned  inland,  crossing  the 
King's  Peak  Range,  which  here  borders  the  coast. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  we  came  out  on  the  summit 
into  an  open  moorland  country  dotted  with  fine 
white  oaks,  under  one  of  which  I  subsided,  my  last 
ounce  of  energy  exhausted.  A  half-hour's  rest  in  the 
shade  prepared  us  for  the  long  descent  into  the  \  al- 
ley of  the  Mattole.  The  road  seemed  interminable, 
looping  and  doubling  about  as  it"  determined  t<>  -pin 
out  the  miles  to  tin-  limit  of  our  endurance.  M\  map 
showed  a  place  named  Wilder  about  halfway  down, 
but  I  could  see  no  settlement  whatc  VCT.  It  p: 
later  that  a  decrepit  shack  I  had  p..-  -.  d,  standi] 
a  neglected  orchard,  was  the  sum  total  of  the  ul- 
lage I  had  been  looking  for.  A  mile  or  two  farther 
on,  I  met  a  man  with  a  wagon  toiling  up  the  e- 


288        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

the  only  human  being  I  had  seen  since  leaving  my 
last  night's  stopping-place. 

I  fear  I  was  not  much  alive  to  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset-lighted  forest  through  which  we  passed, 
though  I  recalled  afterwards  that  the  scenery  had 
been  particularly  fine.  About  dusk  we  came  out  of 
the  timber  into  the  valley  of  the  Mattole,  a  wide, 
handsome  stream,  which  we  forded ;  and  half  a  mile 
beyond  found  a  comfortable-looking,  old-fashioned 
ranch-house,  with  children  playing  hide-and-seek 
among  the  bushes  of  the  garden.  Fortunately  we 
could  be  accommodated.  The  family  was  friendly, 
supper  was  hilarious  with  skylarking  children,  and 
my  spirits  soon  regained  their  normal  level  of  con- 
tent. I  slept  finely  in  my  little  white  room,  and  was 
only  awakened  by  the  morning  uproar  of  the  pack  of 
dogs  which  my  host  kept  to  protect  his  property 
from  the  coyotes,  wild-cats,  and  bears  that  infest  the 
region. 

The  road  now  followed  the  valley  of  the  Mattole, 
parallel  with  the  coast  but  at  six  or  eight  miles'  dis- 
tance, and  shut  off  from  it  by  the  hills  of  the  Coos- 
kie  Range.  On  the  other  hand  rose  the  higher  line 
of  the  Rainbow  Ridge.  This  valley  was  one  of  the 
prettiest  I  had  seen.  I  passed  a  number  of  comfort- 
able ranch-houses  and  many  prosperous  orchards, 
principally  of  apples.  From  what  I  saw,  I  believe 
this  locality  is  destined  to  be  famous  for  that  par- 
ticular crop. 

The  river  is  a  very  delightful  one,  clear  and  wind- 


YEWS  289 

ing,  enlivened  with  ducks  and  trout,  and  the  sandy 
margin  was  everywhere  marked  with  the  trad 
deer.  It  was  deplorable-  to  be  unable,  for  lack  of 
fodder,  to  take  advantage  of  such  superlative  at  t  ruc- 
tions for  camping,  but  in  default  we  made  the  best  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  way.  We  sauntered  along  munch- 
ing our  apples,  drank  at  every  stream  and  spring,  and 
did  not  fail  to  remark  on  the  goodness  of  the  draught. 

It  was  interesting  to  find  a  few  yews  among  tin- 
varied  timber  on  the  south  bank  of  the  river.  I  had 
not  before  met  the  tree  in  this  country,  and  it  was 
a  pleasant  surprise  to  recognize  the  scarlet-cupped 
berries  shining  beneath  the  graceful  sprays  of  foliage. 
It  has  an  open  and  airy  manner  of  growth  which 
makes  it  quite  different  from  the  sombre,  close- 
growing  tree  of  English  churchyards. 

To-day  we  had  no  sight  of  the  sea.  The  coast  here 
trends  considerably  westward  to  Point  Gorda, 
whence  it  runs  north  a  few  miles  to  Cape  Mendcx  ino 
and  thence  somewhat  more  easterly  to  the  0r< 
line.  The  road  kept  a  mean  northwesterly  course, 
and  by  evening  I  was  again  approaching  the  coast, 
and  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  village  of  Petrolia, 
lying  in  the  open  lower  valley  of  the  Mattole. 

Petrolia,  as  its  name  seemed  t<»  signify,  once  had 
great  expectations  in  oil,  bul  these  have  not  been 
realized.  This  failure,  and  a  double  disaster,  of  tire 
in  1904,  and  of  earthquake  two  years  later  (both, 
curiously,  on  the  same  day  of  the  year),  might  well 
discourage  the  modest  settlement.     The  first  hotel 


290        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

had  been  destroyed  by  the  fire,  which  nearly  obliter- 
ated the  little  place,  and  the  dwelling-house  which 
is  now  used  as  an  inn  was  literally  broken  in  half  by 
the  earthquake.  A  landslide  had  occurred  near  the 
summit  of  a  high  hill  to  the  east  of  the  village,  when 
the  great  trees  by  hundreds  were  snapped  off  like 
matches  before  the  eyes  of  the  terrified  Petrolians, 
roused,  or  rather,  thrown,  early  from  their  beds  on 
that  fateful  morning. 

The  road  now  led  directly  to  the  coast,  passing 
through  an  interesting  country,  alternating  between 
canons  dark  with  timber  and  hillsides  yellow  with 
parched  grass.  The  firs  were  here  especially  fine, 
and  I  felt  that  my  old  partiality  for  the  family  was 
again  justified.  An  hour's  ride  brought  me  to  the 
shore,  where  I  saw,  a  few  miles  up  the  coast,  the  long 
profile  of  Cape  Mendocino  standing  out  at  sharp 
angle,  with  a  conical  sugar-loaf  rock  at  its  point, 
marking  what  is  the  most  westerly  land  of  the 
United  States  with  the  exception  of  Cape  Flattery, 
just  on  the  Canadian  border. 

Anton  was  in  better  fettle  to-day,  enjoying,  like 
myself,  the  cool  sea  wind  after  several  days  of  heat, 
and  appreciating  the  level  stretches  of  road,  suc- 
ceeding a  long  course  of  hills.  He  cantered  gaily 
along  by  the  mile,  making  no  account  of  the  two 
hundred  pounds  and  over  of  his  load.  With  all 
respect  to  Chino,  of  faithful  memory,  I  must  say 
that  if  I  had  had  Anton  from  the  start,  I  should 
have  saved  much  time,  and  might  have  afforded 


CAPE    MENDOCINO  29] 

many  days  for  side  expeditions  which  now  I  had  to 
forego. 

At  a  little  cabin  by  the  roadside  and  close  to  the 
beach,  I  met  with  two  of  the  county  officers  who 
were  stealing  away  from  official  cares  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  the  deer,  trout,  and  quail.  While  v.. 
our  lunch  together,  one  of  them,  an  old  Humboldt 
and  Trinity  man,  tapped  the  reminiscent  vein  to 
lively  effect.  The  days  of  his  youth,  forty  years  ago, 
were  wild  ones  in  these  regions,  and  he  himself  had 
more  than  once  been  "feathered"  fas  he  put  it  by 
the  redskins,  as  his  souvenir  scars  attested. 

By  the  time  I  took  the  road,  my  old  friend  the 
Pacific  fog,  which  during  the  morning  I  had  seen  ly- 
ing in  wait  offshore,  had  crept  in  and  was  pouting  in 
chilly  wreaths  over  the  crests  of  the  northern  hills. 
A  couple  of  miles  took  us  to  Cape  Mendocino,  a 
headland  of  some  geographical  renown.  It  was  dis- 
covered in  1542  by  Cabrillo,  who  named  it  in  honor 
of  "  the  illustrious  serior"  Antonio  de  Mend.  ./a.  then 
Viceroy  of  Mexico,  and  its  far  westerly  projection 
rendered  it  always  a  salient  point  in  early  n.c 
tions  along  this  coast.  I  did  not  fail  to  pay  ho; 
to  the  memory  of  the  brave  seaman  who,  only  fifty 
years  after  the  discovery  of  the  Western  continent, 
was  exploring  far  up  this  unknown  coast  for  what 
more  might  be  added  to  the  glory  of  Spain,  beyond 
the  marvels  of  Mexico  and  Peru.  But  that  that 
glory  was  even  then  almost  at  the  beginning  of  its 
decline,   there  would  hardly  have  occurred,   that 


292        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

strange  discrepancy  between  the  civilization  of  the 
eastern  and  western  sides  of  the  continent  which 
was  only  ended  by  the  gold  discoveries  of  1848. 

A  cluster  of  white  buildings  set  high  up  on  the 
slope  of  the  cape  marked  the  lighthouse.  I  climbed 
up  to  it  and  found  the  building  to  be  a  small,  low  one ; 
but  its  situation  four  hundred  feet  above  the  tide  en- 
ables it  to  send  its  beam  far  out  over  the  dark  night 
waters.  Four  miles  farther  out  at  sea  a  lightship  is 
stationed  to  mark  a  reef. 

It  was  drawing  towards  evening  when  I  turned  my 
horse  into  the  road  and  took  my  way  down  to  the 
valley  of  the  Bear  River.  The  fog  lay  close  along 
the  coast,  but  inland  the  country  was  glowing  with  a 
sunset  of  unusual  beauty.  The  Bear  River  Range 
rose  opposite,  veiled  in  amethystine  haze,  and  be- 
low me  the  middle  distance  was  a  mystery  of  fairy- 
like hues,  only  defined  here  and  there  by  purple 
masses  of  fir  forest.  Behind,  for  contrast,  the  ocean 
showed  cold  and  sullen  under  gray  wreaths  of  fog, 
but  its  voice  came  from  the  distance  with  a  wistful 
tone  that  blended  with  the  evening  reverie  of  color. 
An  hour's  ride  took  us  to  the  valley,  and  splashing 
through  the  stream  in  the  dusk  we  came  into  the 
village  of  Capetown,  where  a  neat  inn  and  a  com- 
fortable stable  respectively  awaited  us. 

The  road  from  here  led  next  day  over  the  Bear 
River  Range.  The  fog  had  stayed  in,  and  alleviated 
the  long  hard  climb  up  the  southward  facing  slope. 
Now  and  then  a  wash  of  pale  sunlight  broke  through, 


GENTLE    TEAMSTERS  293 

revealing  the  massed  trees  on  the  ridges  to  the  south 
and  east.  On  nearing  the  summit  we  entered  the 
timber,  mainly  of  spruce,  but  mixed  here  and  there 
with  scattering  red  cedars  (Thuja  plicata).  '1  his 
was  another  tree  that  was  new  to  me,  and  is  the  tim- 
ber of  which  the  long  canoes  once  used  by  the  In- 
dians of  this  coast  were  made.  I  tied  Anton,  and 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  tramping  about  among 
a  prodigious  tangle  of  damp  brush  and  ferns,  mak- 
ing myself  acquainted  with  the  features  of  the  spe- 
cies. It  is  a  tree  similar  in  foliage  but  quite  different 
in  fruit  from  the  incense  cedar  of  the  Sierra. 

While  I  was  eating  lunch  beside  a  brook  that 
crossed  the  road,  two  heavy  wagons  came  crawling 
up  and  stopped  for  the  midday  hour  while  the  teams 
and  teamsters  fed  and  rested.  The  men  had  been 
driving  over  this  road  regularly  for  some  time,  and 
had  made  friends  with  all  the  small  wild  life  of  the 
immediate  locality.  Evidently  they  were  expected. 
Birds  came  swooping  toward  them  as  soon  as  they 
saw  that  they  had  arrived,  and  were  fed  with  bits  of 
bread  which  they  took  boldly  from  their  hands. 
Three  chipmunks  dined  in  a  litter  of  hay  se1  oul  for 
them  close  by;  and  lizards  were  regaled  with  flies 
which  had  been  caught  for  the  purpose  during  the 
morning.  The  men  were  rough  enough  in  s] 
and  manner,  but  evidently  their  quality  of  heart  was 
recognized  by  the  democracy  of  the  wild. 

Now  came  a  descent  as  long  as  the  rise,  l>m  beau- 
tified with  fine  timber.   Here  appeared  yet  another 


294        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

coniferous  tree,  the  Sitka  spruce  (Picea  sitchensis),  a 
handsome  but  somewhat  mournful  tree  with  long 
trailing  branchlets  that  hang  like  the  funeral  fringes 
of  undertakers.  It  is  most  interesting  to  the  trav- 
elling tree-lover  to  meet  thus  one  after  another  the 
particular  species  of  his  locality. 

A  rough  and  peculiarly  broken  tract,  known  as 
"the  Wild-Cat  Country,"  occurs  here,  and  with  it 
a  doleful  quantity  of  burned  timber.  Farms  were 
few  and  secluded,  and  I  guessed  from  the  appearance 
of  the  few  people  I  passed  on  the  road  that  a  large 
proportion  of  the  farmers  are  Scandinavians.  Com- 
ing at  length  down  a  long  grade,  I  saw  below  me  the 
wide  valley  of  the  Eel  River,  and  the  river  itself  (at 
this  season  at  its  lowest,  but  not  a  contemptible 
stream)  with  the  town  of  Ferndale  lying  prettily  on 
the  southern  edge  of  the  valley.  Looking  round  to 
the  west  I  could  make  out  a  thin  white  line  of  surf, 
four  miles  away.  Ferndale  is  a  fair-sized  town  for 
this  thinly  populated  country,  with  several  stores,  a 
bank,  and  the  unwonted  choice  of  two  hotels.  The 
next  day  being  Sunday,  I  passed  here  a  peaceful 
gray  day,  enjoying  by  contrast  walking  among  the 
old-fashioned  cottage  gardens,  full  of  cosmos,  au- 
tumn roses,  and  a  hawthorn  or  two  with  red  haws 
twinkling  among  the  bronze  foliage. 

Next  morning  I  took  the  road  for  Eureka,  an  au- 
thentic city,  and  what  may  be  called  the  capital  of 
the  northern  part  of  the  State,  as  San  Francisco  is  of 
the  central  and  Los  Angeles  of  the  southern  portions. 


iir.Mr.nl. hi     BAY  395 

The  morning  wa  \    with  a  thin  nisi  oiling 

the  valley  and  gh  ing  .1  spectral  air  to  the  scatt 
Bpruces  thai  Bprinkled  the  landscape.   At 
I  met  the  northern  division  of  the  Nortl 
Pacific  Railway,  the  southern  pan  of  which  I  had 
K-ft  two  hundred  miles  t<>  tin-  south.   II-  n    also  I 
crossed  the  Eel  River,  paying  toll  for  the  use 
bridge  which,  as  I  found  when  I  came  to  the  ; 
where  it  Bhould  have  been,  did  not  exist.   It  was  an 
interesting  question  whether  I  had  pai<l  my  "two 
hits"  lor  the  view  <>f  tin-  ruins  of  the  old  bridgi 
a-  .1  forced  contribution  toward  the  I  the  fine 

new  one  which   I   -au   .it  a  little  distance  upstream, 

nearly  ready  for  use. 

(  Hir  road  now  crossed  a  flat-topped  hill  known  ai 
Table  Bluff.  The  country  here  i>  dairy-land  <>t  the 
richest,  and  I  passed  main  v.  that  were  taking 

their  morning  tribute  <»i  milk  t<>  the  creamer 
Ferndale.   A  mile  or  two  brought  us  within  sigi 
Humlx)l(lt  Bay,  marked  by  the  long   spit  of  -and 
that  aeparates  it  from  the  ocean,  and  almost  rem 
it  landlocked.    I  was  Boon  skirting  the  eastern  shore 
of  tin-  bay,  and  passed  through  two  or  threi    »mall 
waterside   places  when-  \-     els  wen    !■  with 

lumber.   I'\  earl]  aftenv » »n 
f<T  the  last  time,  among  trolley-p 

car-,  and  in  due  course  we  I  nten  d    1  i;:<  ka  and  put 
up  f<  >r  a  O  ''Mile  of  <: 

The  city  of  Eureka  looks  older  than  it  iV    It  was 

in  1850  that  the  first  settlement 


296  CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

people,  was  made,  only  sixty  years  ago  (though  even 
that  is  a  respectable  age  for  the  West).  But  some- 
thing, probably  the  dampness  of  its  climate,  keeps 
the  paint  of  its  houses  subdued  to  a  comfortable 
dinginess.  It  is  a  pushing,  thriving  city  of  some 
twelve  thousand  people,  and,  even  in  advance  of  the 
completion  of  its  railway  connection  with  the  cen- 
tral and  southern  parts  of  the  State  and  with  the 
world  in  general,  the  place  has  shared  fully  in  the 
great  Western  trek.  With  its  fine  bay,  fourteen  miles 
long,  and  its  other  commercial  attractions,  no  doubt 
its  citizens  have  grounds  for  the  exuberance  of  their 
forecasts.  Apart  from  practical  considerations,  it 
was  interesting  to  recall  that  Bret  Harte  here  took 
his  first  steps  toward  fame  by  means  of  the  local 
newspaper ;  and  to  see  the  remains  of  Old  Fort  Hum- 
boldt, where  General  (then  Lieutenant)  Grant  was 
stationed  for  a  time  some  years  before  the  great  war 
provided  his  great  opportunity. 

It  seems  probable  that  but  for  the  narrowness  of 
the  entrance  to  the  bay,  and  the  surf  which  obscures 
the  passage,  a  Spanish  settlement  would  have  been 
made  at  this  point.  The  harbor  appears  to  have 
been  overlooked  entirely  until  the  year  1806,  when 
Captain  Winship,  employed  on  this  coast  by  the  Rus- 
sian-American Fur  Company,  was  informed  by  one 
of  his  Aleuts  of  the  existence  of  a  fine  bay  beyond 
the  line  of  surf,  and  piloted  his  ship,  the  Ocean,  safely 
into  the  quiet  waters. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

Areata  —  Furze  and  daisies  —  Mad   River  —  Stump  land  —  Trini- 
dad   Bay,    headland,   and    Lighthouse  —  La|  \ 
and  Indian  —  The  coast  hemlock  —  Tin  vill 
game  country  —  Splendid  forest    -  Fog  among  the  n 
weird  scene  —  A  Btrange   couple:   sentiment   yields  I 
Crossing  the  Klamath  River — Requa:  the  Klamath  Imli. 
The  forest  again  —  Crescent   City:  Baloone  and  a   pi 
harbor  —  Doubtful  sailing  dates  —  Smith  River  Conn 
Oregon  coast  in  view  —  The  goal  is  reached:  congratulatioM — 
Good-bye  to  Anton,  —  and  to  Oregon. 

It  was  the  25th  of  October  when  I  left  Eureka. 
Though  my  time  was  not  limited  I  had  planned 
when  I  began  the  trip  that  I  would  finish  it  by  the 
end  of  this  month,  and  it  looked  as  though  I  should 
just  about  keep  my  date.  Here  we  said  good-bye 
finally  to  cities  and  railroads,  though  not  entirely  t<> 
automobiles,  a  few  of  which  travel  the  coasl  road, 
though  the  bulk  of  road  traffic  t.ik<s  the  inland  way 
through  Red  Bluff  and  Shasta.  The  morning  was 
dull  and  cold,  with  a  look  of  rain,  which  at  this 
son  might  be  expected  without  much  warnini 
had  to  take  a  circuitous  road,  in  order  t"  avoid  the 
wide  stretch  of  swamp-land  that   lies  to  th< 

Humlx)l(lt  Bay,  and  rode  twelve  miles  before  round- 
ing the  head  of  the  bay  .it  Areata,  only  Bix  miles 
from  Eureka  by  air-line. 

This  region  is  tin-  finest  of  dairy-land,  Sal  and 
green,  most  of  it  having   been  originally  I 


298        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

The  roadside  was  adorned  with  many  old  stumps  of 
redwoods,  on  the  slowly  decaying  tops  of  which  little 
gardens  of  herbage  and  small  shrubby  plants  were 
flourishing.  The  climate  offers  a  continual  bonus  to 
vegetation.  Even  in  the  rainless  summer,  growth 
goes  on  unchecked  by  aid  of  the  fogs,  and  the 
ground  is  automatically  fertilized  by  generous  de- 
posits of  humus. 

At  Areata,  a  clean,  small  town  which  once  aspired 
to  the  leadership  of  the  bay  and  the  county,  the 
road  turned  again  directly  north  and  gradually 
drew  to  the  coast.  Outlying  blocks  of  timber  varied 
the  level  farming-land,  but  the  main  body  of  the 
forest  lay  a  mile  or  two  to  north  and  east,  a  long, 
dark  wall,  serried,  reticent,  beautiful.  A  faint  growl 
came  from  the  ocean.  Bushes  of  furze  appeared 
here  and  there  beside  the  road,  introduced,  I  sus- 
pect, by  some  sentimental  Briton,  and  the  grass  was 
sprinkled  with  pink-tipped  daisies.  Sometimes  the 
road  ran  between  high  banks  overgrown  with  her- 
bage and  shrubbage,  and  often  past  pleasant,  old- 
fashioned  cottages,  with  little  semi-wild  gardens 
and  careless  apple  trees  thereby.  It  was  altogether 
a  charming  scene  to  any  one  who  prefers  the  sim- 
plicities to  the  elegancies  of  life. 

Here  I  crossed  another  considerable  stream,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  Mad  River.  Its  character  did  not 
seem  to  suit  the  title,  and  I  learned  later  that  the 
name  referred  to  a  quarrel  that  had  arisen  here 
among  a  party  of  the  early  settlers  in  the  neighbor- 


TRINIDAD    BAY 

hood.  Think  of  using    Nature's  bri 
memorandum  book  oi  some  fooli  h   quabble! 

A  westerly  turn  ol  the  road  brougfal  us  down  ».. 
the  shore,  ;i  few  miles  south  of  Trinidad  Bay.  \ 
Btrong  wind  was  blowing,  and  all  ui>  and  down  th<- 
shore  a  salty  mist  overhung  th<-  meeting  of  land  and 
water.    T<>  the  north  the  <  ain  to  i 

crested  with  timber,  and  the  dark  shape  <  >\  1  rii 
Head  stood  out  in  firm  outline,  with  .1  glint  of  white 
marking  the  lighthouse  on  the  seaward  edj 

[nterminable  zi  no*  led  through  miles 

of  Btump-land,  where  blackened  b 
made  a  dismal  mockery  of  a  forest    lh<-  melan- 
choly sky  and  chill  wind 
to  the  forbidding  scene,  and  occasional  d 
rain  added  a  touch  of  physical  discomfort  to  round 
out  the  impression.   I  kept  Anton  movi 
pace,  and  by  early  evening  we  came  to  anchor  at 
the  little  town  of  Trinidad.  This  was  once  .1  ; 
of  more  importance  than  it  i-  al  present.  The 
bor,  though  Bmall,  •  I  -  «e,  « ith  deep  - 

dose  inshore  and  shelter  from  all  wind  the 

southwesterly.  To  the  Spaniards  it  wa 

Puerto    Trinidad,    though    little 

been  its  use  as  a  port  to  them.   I  san  the  n  m  u 
an  old  landing-place,  but  the  Trinid 
settled  "ii  n-  k  •   .  ai  d 
a  feeble  appeal  to  summei 
pretty  one,  with  rocky  and  woi 
i  few  Indians  who  1: 


300        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  adds  an  element  of  the  squal- 
idly picturesque. 

I  paid  my  visit  to  the  lighthouse,  which  occupies 
a  striking  position  on  the  face  of  the  almost  perpen- 
dicular headland.  It  is  a  "fourth  order"  station, 
employing  a  total  force  of  one  man.  The  present 
keeper  has  been  in  charge  for  twenty-three  years, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  had  no  desire  for  a  change.  The 
other  lighthouse  men  I  had  talked  with  were  almost 
to  a  man  living  in  hope  of  being  transferred  to  other 
posts,  which  is  natural  enough,  considering  the  lone- 
liness and  monotony  of  their  lives. 

Leaving  Trinidad  the  next  afternoon,  ten  miles  of 
delightful  road,  varied  between  cliff  and  forest, 
brought  us  to  Big  Lagoon.  This  is  the  first  and  larg- 
est of  a  chain  of  three  lakes,  lying  close  along  the 
shore.  At  the  southern  point  of  the  lagoon  I  found 
a  wayside  stopping-place  kept  by  good  Norse  people, 
and  here  I  put  up. 

A  considerable  number  of  Indians  are  scattered 
through  this  region,  which  is  not  far  from  the  Hoopa 
Valley  Reservation.  While  I  was  chatting  at  the 
door,  an  Indian  woman  with  painted  chin,  a  solemn 
papoose  slung  at  her  back,  came  up  with  a  present 
of  huckleberries  for  my  hostess.  It  was  pleasant  to 
see  the  cordiality  of  their  manner  to  one  another.  A 
party  of  "  bucks  "  were  at  work  a  mile  or  two  up  the 
beach,  washing  out  the  auriferous  sand,  which  all 
along  the  coast  in  the  locality  of  the  Klamath  River 
yields  gold  in  small  quantity. 


THE   C0AS1    HEMLOCK 

A  cloudless  morning  with  a  smart  touch  of  fi 
Bel  u-  early  on  <>ui  way.  Two  miles  \>->k 

•  't  the  lag*  i  'ii :  then  the  road  tu 
following  its  -  astern  Bhore  throu 
redwood,  Bpruce,  and  hemlock.   I  h 
tering  the  territory  of  this  last-named 

hctcrophylla),  with  who  and  daintiness  ! 

at  once  in  1<  »\  e.  The  lea*  es  are  I  indof 

a  Boft  yet   brilliant   green;  the  stem  a 
overshaded  with  gray :  and  the  cones  quaintly  unall 
and  fairy-like,  hanging  like  beads  bekro  tin 
in^  sprays  <  A  f<  !: 

The  timber  was  unusually  d         and  the 
light   through   fathoms  <>f  wa\ 
charming  that  I  was  compelled  to  rein  u 
ment  in  admiration.   By  now  Anton 

tries,  and  when  he  Baw  my  n< >te-l » .. .k  * 
applied  himself  without  delay  to  tin-  l  It 

was  always  amusing  to  me  1  .  hi>  pr.  . 

when  In-  saw  me  putting  away  book  and 

his  cur  to  (  rain  hi-  mouth  in  t1 

and  up  to  tin-  last  moment ;  but  he 
on  good-naturedly  w  h<  • 
A  couple  <'t'  miles  ■ 

nity  tor  a  gallop  tD  make  u; 

and  brought  us  by  nooi 

ond  of  the  lakes.  Stop] 

a  tcu  apples,  I  was  gratuitou 

a-  I  could  can        my.    H 

In  by  tl. 


302        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

lets.  Daisies,  too,  were  plentiful,  and  now  and  then  a 
late  wild  rose  smiled  from  a  thicket.  Once  I  found 
even  a  bush  of  luscious  wild  azalea  in  bloom,  three 
months  out  of  its  place  in  the  floral  procession. 

The  third  lagoon,  called  Freshwater,  though 
smaller  than  the  others,  is  a  fine  sheet  of  water,  fully 
a  mile  long.  The  road  runs  high  above  it,  and  look- 
ing down  from  my  elevation  the  surface  seemed  cov- 
ered almost  solidly  with  waterfowl.  A  mile  beyond 
it  I  came  to  the  village  of  Orick,  and,  it  being  now 
mid-afternoon,  I  put  up  at  an  old-fashioned  build- 
ing, ranch-house  and  hotel  together,  kept  by  hearty 
Scotch-Irish  folks.  The  guns,  rods,  and  dogs  over 
which  I  stumbled  at  every  turn  seemed  to  imply  a 
fine  game  country.  The  place  is  very  attractive  in 
situation  and  surroundings,  on  the  banks  of  a  pretty 
trout  stream,  only  a  mile  from  both  sea  and  lake, 
and  backed  by  a  ridge  of  primeval  forest  that  rises 
from  the  rich  land  of  an  ever  green  valley. 

The  road  next  day  passed  still  through  the  same 
superb  forest.  The  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  great 
trees  were  deeply  impressive,  and  their  thronging 
numbers  quite  staggering.  The  hemlock  in  particu- 
lar again  charmed  me.  There  is  an  inexpressible 
richness  in  those  downward  sweeping  fans  of  foliage, 
dark  yet  sumptuous,  a  fragile  grace  in  their  drooping 
spires  and  branchlets,  that  makes  each  tree  individ- 
ually lovable.  The  spruces,  too,  were  wonderful, 
the  stems  extraordinary  in  girth  and  perfect  in 
straightness  and  taper.  The  cones  of  this  tree  are  ex- 


FORES!     \M-    FOG     in    fHI 


SPLENDID    F0RES1 

oeedingly  pretty,  thi  small  and  regular,  and 

of  a  bright  light-brown  color;  and  the  foliage  ! 
in  rope-like  valano  the  downward-curving 

branch* 

As  t<>r  the  redwoods,  they  were  more  than  i 
memorable    in  their  columnar  steadfastness    and 
Bymmetry.  A  marked  luil.it  of  tl 
manner  of  gro*  ing  in  tw  in-  «.r  triplets  - >\  sterna  I 
a  single  base,  which  in  such  cases  i-  often  of  prodi- 
gious size.   I  noted  main-  tmnk^  that  were  over 
twenty  feet  in  diameter,  and  main  trees  tli.it  . 
fully  two  hundred  and  fiftj  feet  in  height:  though 
by  reason  of  the  colossal  size  of  the  whole  assembly 
the  dimensions  of   individuals    would  hardly    be 
guessed* 

A  few  maples  grew  along  tin  upholsto 

completely  in  the  greenest  <«f  moss.  Their  scanty 
remaining  leaves  were  glowing  with  autumn 
and  the  gloom  oi  tin-  forest  aisles  was  lighted  up  l>y 
their  large  ragged  stars  "t  purest  yellow.  On  i 

stump  and  fallen  log,  and  on  every  fork  and  I 

of  living  tree,  little  eh  es' 

and  fungi  were  growing,      dainty  spraj 

ium,    red    ami    <>rar..  Is,    barl 

theria:  and  the  n  tadside  banks  v.  « ith  m>  i 

<>f  ferns,  while  n  that  I  si  >me- 

times  mistook  them  f<  <v  a  young  grow  th  of  sonn 

heathery  plant. 
The  day  was  oven  i  t,  and  all   the  morning  the 

clouds  crept  and  wreathed  about  the  higher  ri< 


304        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

As  the  day  went  on,  the  fog  lowered,  till  a  dense 
white  mist  enveloped  us  and  our  tree  companions. 
The  effect  in  this  close  forest  was  strange  and  beau- 
tiful, the  straight,  dark  stems  of  the  trees  standing 
all  about  me,  outlined  against  a  vaporous  back- 
ground of  white  that  strongly  accented  the  perspec- 
tive while  it  obscured  all  detail.  Heavy  drops  fell 
from  the  branches  dimly  seen  overhead,  and  a  low 
and  muffled  sound  came  from  the  surf  on  the  shore 
a  mile  away.  The  place  was  weird  and  Dantean  in 
the  extreme,  and  I  could  have  thought  myself  wan- 
dering in  the  gloomy  forest  of  Dis. 

While  I  was  standing  on  a  bank  above  the  road, 
admiring  the  novel  and  mysterious  scene,  a  man  and 
a  woman  came  round  the  bend  of  the  road  and 
stopped  to  speculate  upon  Anton,  who  was  tied 
close  by.  As  they  did  not  see  me  I  had  time  for 
speculating  on  them  myself.  They  were  young  and 
well-dressed.  The  man  was  bareheaded,  and  had  a 
pleasing  face,  and  both  had  the  air  of  education  and 
good-breeding.  They  were  walking  abreast,  carry- 
ing between  them  a  rifle,  at  the  middle  of  which 
a  bundle  was  slung.  The  woman's  face  showed  a 
pallor  that  might  imply  the  early  stages  of  consump- 
tion, and  I  rapidly  fitted  up  a  theory  that  they  were 
a  young  husband  and  wife,  a  kind  of  forest  lovers, 
who  were  endeavoring,  by  a  wandering  life  in  the 
open,  to  ward  off  the  dread  disease.  On  the  strength 
of  this  romantic  idea  I  felt  quite  sympathetic  toward 
them. 


A    STRANGE    C01   III 

After  a  few  moments,  during  which  they  dis- 
cussed Anton  and  pointed  oul  to  each  other  the 
items  of  his  equipment,  it  occurred  to  me  th 
would  be  awkward  to  be  di  cov<  red  thus  with  an 

appearance  of   "taking   Btock"  oi    them;    -.,   I   said, 

"Good-afternoon,"  and  they  turned  and  saw  me 
\\V  exchanged  a  few  sentences  bearing  upon  the 
weather,  the  forest,  and  the  distances  we  had  I 
respectively  to  our  intended  destination--  for  tin- 
night,  and  then  they  walked  slowly  on.  It  w 
ludicrous  sequel  to  find  later  that  they  were  .id- 
venturers  who  had  been  travelling  with  horse  and 
wagon,  giving  stereopticon  entertainments  .it  any 
little  place  where  they  could  get  an  audience,  and 
leaving  a  long  and  mournful  train  of  creditor  in 
their  wake.  The  stereopticon  had  been  seized  some- 
where up  country,  and  the  horse  and  wagon  had 
been  impounded  at  Crescent  City  to  satisf)  other 
bills  which  had  been  destined  for  settlement  by  the 
"skipping"  process.  These  facts,  when  1  learned 

them,  seemed  to  throw  a  new  light  upon  the  inter- 
est they  had  shown  in  niv  good  horse  and  my  other 
property.  One  could   hardly   imagine   two 

w  hose  appearance  was  mor 

a  mode  of  living,  mm\  I  have  of  ten  wondered  what 
were  th<-  beginning  and  the  end  of  their  adventui 
Somewhere  hereabouts  we  a  into  Del  N 

County,  which  is  the  northernmost  count)  of  tin- 
State,  and  there  I.  >iv  would  be  the  final  one  ot  «.(.- 
pedition.    1  mentioned  tin's  t<.  Anton,  DUt  he  wa>  de- 


306        CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

pressed  by  the  gloom  of  the  day,  and  showed  no  par- 
ticular interest  in  the  prospect  of  a  speedy  release 
from  his  duties. 

The  forest  ended  abruptly  soon  after  we  crossed 
the  county  line,  and  we  now  came  again  directly  to 
the  coast.  The  road  ran  close  to  the  shore,  but  high 
up  on  the  cliff,  and  the  sound  of  a  heavy  surf  roaring 
below  us,  unseen  for  the  fog,  produced  a  queer  sen- 
sation. Occasionally  the  scream  of  a  sea-bird  came 
up  from  the  gray  void  with  startling  effect.  Back 
from  the  cliff-edge  stretched  an  open  hillside  of 
bronzed  fern  mixed  with  brush  and  a  scattering  of 
low-growing  spruces. 

Some  miles  of  this  brought  us  by  evening  close  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Klamath  River,  where  I  was  fortu- 
nate in  finding  lodging  at  a  comfortable  house  on  the 
cliff,  escaping  the  dismal  alternative  of  the  inn  at 
Requa,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  stream.  The  peo- 
ple were  cultivated  and  friendly,  and  I  passed  a 
most  pleasant  Sunday,  with  music,  magazines,  and 
a  pervading  thunder  of  breakers  on  the  river-bar 
half  a  mile  away. 

On  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  30th  of  October, 
I  crossed  the  Klamath,  succeeding,  after  ten  min- 
utes' whooping,  in  gaining  the  attention  of  the  In- 
dian who  operates  the  ferry  when  not  too  deeply  en- 
gaged in  loafing  about  the  village.  The  Klamath  is 
a  fine  stream,  fully  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide  here  at 
its  mouth.  Looking  up  it  from  mid-stream  I  saw  a 
wide,  smooth  sheet  of  reddish-colored  water  sweep- 


REQUA:   THE    KLAMATH    INDIANS     307 

ing  between  high  forested  walls,  —  such  a  river  as  if 
has  long  been  my  wish  to  explore  hum  sea  to  source. 

But  this  was  not  to  be  the  occasi.  >n. 

I  landed  at  Requa,  a  village  of  a  dozen  <>r  so 
houses,  with  a  population  that  is  halt"  Indian,  and 
principally  employed  in  the  salmon  canneries,  <•! 
which  there  are  two  near  by.  The  Indians  had  an 
intelligent  and  prosperous  look.  At  a  neat  little 
store  kept  by  one  of  them,  I  purchased  a  few  of  t he- 
baskets  for  which  the  tribe  is  noted.  Beside  tin- 
many  uses  which  the  California  Indians  in  general 
find  for  their  baskets,  the  squaws  of  this  locality  use 
them  as  head-coverings,  with  picturesque  effect 

When  it  is  said  that  this  small  settlement  is  1  In- 
second  place  in  size  in  the  county,  it  will  be 
that  the  population  of  Del  Norte  is  not  imposing  in 
numbers.  It  seems  strange  that  this  little  region  of 
some  forty  miles  square  should  have  been  formed 
into  a  county  at  all.  But  that  is  their  own  busin 
and  the  Del  Norteans  do  not  omit  to  tell  you  that 
their  small  territory  shows  a  greater  assessed  valua- 
tion per  head  for  its  people  than  any  other  county 
of  the  State. 

To-day  again  was  cloudy,  and  the  forest  Mill  v 
an  aspect  of  gentle  gloom,  ('.olden  maples  sh< 
glory  over  the  little  creeks  that  crept  with  Boundless 
flow  along  every  hollow,  and  here  and  then  .1  lui^h 
of  the  exquisite  vine  maple  glowed  with  the  lite- 
blood  of  the  dying  year.  I  rode  hour  alter  hour 
through  this  delightful  land,  revelling  in  the  com- 


3o8        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

panionable  quietude  and  indulging  to  the  full  that 
quickening  of  mind  and  sympathy  which  are  the  pe- 
culiar spiritual  boons  of  a  forest.  From  time  to  time 
the  deep,  wise  voice  of  the  ocean  came  to  me  in 
thoughtful  undertone.  Bird  and  animal  life  seemed 
almost  absent,  and  the  automobile  element  was 
gratefully  rare.  Much  of  the  road  was  "  corduroyed," 
and  did  not  lend  itself  to  the  motorist's  ideal  of  speed. 
We  had  started  rather  late,  and  had  travelled 
slowly,  so  that  it  was  dusk  before  we  emerged  from 
the  forest  and  came  down  to  the  beach.  A  cheerful 
beam  came  from  a  lighthouse  a  few  miles  to  the 
northwest,  marking  the  point  of  the  bay  on  which 
Crescent  City  is  built.  The  road  was  bad,  but  there 
was  a  bright  moon,  and  I  turned  Anton  down  to 
the  hard  sand  of  the  beach  and  put  him  into  an 
exhilarating  canter.  Soon  the  lights  of  houses  began 
to  twinkle  distantly,  then  gleamed  across  the  water 
of  the  bay;  and  we  clattered  down  the  main  street 
of  Crescent  City  just  in  time  to  save  me  my  supper 
at  the  hotel. 

I  devoted  the  next  morning  to  a  tour  of  the  "  city , " 
which  revealed  nothing  noteworthy  beyond  a  phe- 
nomenal number  of  drinking-places.  I  think  this 
smallest  of  California  cities,  with  a  population  of 
about  twelve  hundred,  can  probably  claim  the  pre- 
eminence in  proportion  of  saloons  to  inhabitants. 
Nevertheless,  the  place  has,  on  the  whole,  an  attrac- 
tive look.  The  general  topic  of  discussion  seemed  to 
be  a  harbor  which  it  is  proposed  to  make  on  a  neigh- 


DOUBTFUL   SAILING    DATES         309 

boring  arm  of  the  ocean  called  Lake  Earl.  In  the 
West,  that  is  a  poor  community,  indeed,  that  has 
not  always  some  harbor  or  railway  in  prospeel . 

Del  Norte's  principal  link  with  the  rest  of  the 
world  is  a  small  steamer  which  plies  with  regular 
irregularity  between  Crescent  City  and  San  Fran- 
cisco. This  was  to  be  my  means  of  returning  to  the 
south.  When  I  inquired  the  next  sailing-date,  the 
reply  was  not  very  explicit.  "Let's  see,"  said  the 
agent,  "this  is  Tuesday.  Well,  she  ought  to  sail 
Thursday,  but  I  guess  you  had  better  figure  on  Fri- 
day, anyway."  He  would  not  commit  himself  to  any- 
thing more  definite,  and  in  some  disgust  I  was  leav- 
ing the  office  when  he  called  me  back,  to  add,  "Say, 
it  might  be  Saturday,  you  know."  On  this  shifting 
foundation  I  had  to  lay  my  plans. 

I  took  the  road  in  the  afternoon  for  the  few  miles 
of  California  that  remained.  The  coast  here  trends 
westerly  to  Point  St.  George,  but  the  road  lay  two 
or  three  miles  inland,  to  escape  the  inlet,  or  lake 
(Lake  Earl)  which  I  have  mentioned.  The  country 
for  some  miles  was  more  open,  with  occasional  farms 
that  had  been  reclaimed  from  forest,  and  much 
stump-land  in  process  of  clearing. 

Then  for  a  mile  or  two  I  rode  through  a  belt  of 
virgin  forest  as  fine  as  any  I  had  seen.  The  red- 
woods are  here  almost  at  their  northern  boundary, 
for  they  appear  in  Oregon  only  in  one  or  two  scat- 
tered groves  just  beyond  the  line.  It  seems  remark- 
able that  the  tree  should  cease  so  abruptly,  since  it 


310        CALIFORNIA  COAST  TRAILS 

flourishes  in  undiminished  power  up  to  the  limit  of 
its  range,  giving  no  hint  of  dissatisfaction  with  its 
conditions  of  soil  or  climate.  California  may  fairly 
boast  that  both  species  of  the  greatest  of  American 
trees,  the  famous  "big  tree"  and  the  redwood,  are 
practically  confined  to  the  State. 

On  emerging  from  the  forest,  I  found  myself  ap- 
proaching Smith  River,  which  runs  in  a  wide  green 
valley  opening  to  the  sea.  Two  miles  brought  us 
to  the  river,  which  at  this  season  was  shallow, 
though  normally  it  is  a  very  considerable  stream. 
By  evening  I  was  at  the  village  of  Smith  River  Cor- 
ners, a  kind  of  Sleepy  Hollow  close  to  the  junction 
of  a  tributary  with  the  epic-sounding  name  of 
Rowdy  Creek.  Here  I  put  up  for  the  night  at  the 
village  inn,  and  next  morning  pursued  my  way  to- 
ward the  final  goal. 

The  road  passed  through  a  region  of  prosperous 
farms,  and  gradually  approached  the  coast,  which 
here  is  not  high,  though  backed  by  broken  ground 
that  rises  to  the  dignity  of  hills.  Blocks  of  dark  tim- 
ber diversified  the  landscape,  and  the  shore  was  pic- 
turesquely varied  with  storm-blown  spruces  and  a 
foam-ringed  islet  or  two.  I  gazed  with  particular 
interest  at  the  northward  reaches  of  the  coast,  for 
though  there  was  nothing  notable  in  the  view,  I  real- 
ized that  at  last  I  was  looking  up  the  coast  of  Oregon. 

I  put  Anton  to  his  best  pace.  We  dashed  along  a 
mile  of  pleasant  road,  passing  a  trio  of  hilarious  In- 
dians in  a  crazy  buckboard ;  skirted  a  dusky  thicket 


THE   GOAL    IS    REACHED  311 

of  spruces ;  and  at  half-past  ten  on  the  1st  of  Novem- 
ber galloped  gaily  up  to  a  post  on  the  nearer  fan  e 
of  which  was  inscribed  "California,"  on  the  Other, 
"Oregon." 

I  had  accomplished  my  purpose.  The  coast  of 
California,  cliff  and  dune,  rock  and  sand,  forest  and 
barren,  bay,  lagoon,  and  headland,  was  henceforth 
mapped  plainly  in  my  mind;  a  panorama  of  nearly 
ten  degrees  of  latitude  and  not  much  less  than  two 
thousand  miles  of  actual  travel,  taking  into  account 
the  sundry  divergences  I  had  made  and  the  wind- 
ings of  the  way.  I  rode  Anton  down  to  the  beach, 
tied  him  to  a  stump  that  projected  from  the  -and, 
and  threw  myself  down  beside  him  for  a  congratu- 
latory pipe.  It  was  a  matter  of  regrel  thai  he  could 
not  join  me  in  it,  but  I  promised  him  instead  un- 
limited oats  at  his  stable  that  night. 

When  I  felt  that  I  had  done  justice  to  the  occa- 
sion as  far  as  circumstances  allowed,  I  mounted  and 
rode  a  few  miles  farther  up  the  coast  for  good  meas- 
ure, crossing  a  pretty  stream  called  Windchuck 
Creek,  which  empties  just  to  the  north  of  the  line. 
In  the  afternoon  I  rode  leisure! \  back  to  Smith  River 
Corners,  and  at  the  supper-table  \\  ith  do  little  o  >m- 
punction  arranged  a  "deal"  with  the  local  lh 
man  whereby  my  staunch  comrade  of  so  many  miles 
changed  owners.  As  I  looked  into  his  intelligent 
eyes  at  parting,  I  wished  there  were  BOme  wav  by 
which  I  could  express  my  thanks  and  farewells  BS 
warmly  as  I  felt  them. 


312         CALIFORNIA   COAST  TRAILS 

Next  morning  I  returned  to  Crescent  City,  to  find 
that  the  sailing-time  of  the  steamer  was  still  in  as 
much  doubt  as  when  I  left,  except  that  Thursday 
had  been  automatically  ruled  out  of  the  list  of  possi- 
bilities. There  was  a  general  opinion  that  Saturday 
might  be  the  day,  but  it  came  and  went,  and  the 
steamer  made  no  sign.  At  the  breakfast- table  on 
Sunday  rumor  set  the  event  for  noon  of  that  day, 
but  an  experienced  pessimist  construed  the  word  in 
this  bearing  to  mean  five  or  six  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing. I  was  just  about  starting  for  a  walk  to  while 
away  a  few  hours  when  a  blast  from  the  steamer  sig- 
nalled passengers  to  come  aboard. 

I  hurried  down  to  the  wharf,  and  was  entertained 
for  an  hour  with  the  spectacle  of  the  loading  of  a 
carload  of  tan-bark.  Then  arrived  a  load  of  bones, 
and  an  odoriferous  half-hour  was  devoted  to  the  leis- 
urely stowing  of  these.  At  last  a  flat-car  rumbled 
down  the  rails  of  the  wharf,  hauled  by  two  mules, 
and  driven  by  the  good  captain  of  the  Del  Norte. 
On  the  car  was  a  group  of  personally  conducted  pas- 
sengers, who  had  much  the  air  of  being  figures  on  an 
allegorical  float  in  a  procession.  The  gangplank  was 
thrown  out,  we  scrambled  aboard,  the  whistle  blew 
again,  the  ropes  were  cast  off,  and  in  a  drizzle  of  rain 
Crescent  City  and  the  misty  cliffs  of  Oregon  van- 
ished from  sight. 

THE   END 


PRONOUNCING    GLOSSARY 


PRONOUNCING   GLOSSARY 

OF 

SPANISH    TERMS  AND    PLACE-NAMES 


Introductory  Note  :  —  The  pronunciations  given  below  are  indi- 
cated according  to  Mexican  and  not  Castilian  usage,  and  do  not 
attempt  scholastic  exactitude.     They  agree,  in  fact,  with  common 

California  custom.  It  should  be  noted  th.it  tin-  sound  represented 
below  by  the  letter  /;  is  always  h  guttural ;  and  that  the  single  r  is 
trilled  slightly,  the  double  r  strongly. 


Abalone :  ab-a-lo'-ne. 

Acu:  ah-CO 

Adios:  ah-de-ohs'. 

Adobes:  ad-6'-bes:  houses  of 
mud  bricks. 

Adriano:  ah-dre-ah'-no. 

Agua  Caliente:  ah'gwah  cah-le- 
en'-te:   hot  water,  hot  springs. 

Agua  Hedionda:  ah'-gwah  a-de- 
on'-da. 

Alcatraz:  al-ca-traz':  pelican. 

Alisal:  al-e-sahl':  a  place  of  syca- 
mores. 

Aliso:  al-e'-so:  sycamore. 

Alta:ahl'-ta:  upper. 

Anacapa:  a-na-cah'-pa. 

Ano  Nuevo:  ah'-nyo  nwa'-vo: 
New  Year. 

Anton:  an-ton':  the  common  ab- 
breviation of  Antonio. 

Arboles  dc  incienso:  ar'-bo-les  da 
een-ce-en'-so:  incense  trees. 

Arena:  a-ra'-na:  sand. 

Arguello:  ar-gwa'-lyo. 

Arroyo  Cruz:  ar-roy'-o  crooz: 
brook  of  the  cross. 


Arroyo  de  los  Frijoles:  ar-roy'-o 

da  los  fre-ho'-les. 
Arroyo  Grande:  ar-roy'-o  grahn'- 

de:  large  brook. 
Arturo:  ar-too'-ro. 
Asfs:  a-sees':  Assisi. 
Avila:  ah'-ve-la. 

Bailc:  bah-e'-la:  ball. 
Barbarenos:  bar-bar-an'-y6s. 
Benito:  ben-e'-to. 
Bodega:  bo-da'-ga. 
Bolinas:  bo-leen'-as. 
Bonita:  bo-ne'-ta:  pretty. 
Buena  fortuna:  bwa'-na  for-too'- 

na:  good  luck. 
Buenas    noches:     bwa'-nas    no'- 

ches:  good  nighl . 
Buenaventura:  bwa-na-ven-too'- 

ra:  good  fortune. 

Cabrillo:  cab-reel'-yo. 
Calabasas:  cal-a-bahs'-as. 
Canada :can-yah '-da:  large  canon 

(literally   a  place   of   cane*    or 

reeds). 


3i6 


PRONOUNCING   GLOSSARY 


Canada  del  Cojo:  can-yah'-da  del 

co'-ho:  the  lame  man's  canon. 
Canada  Verde  y  Arroyo  de   la 

Purisima:  can-yah'-da  vair'-da. 

e  ar-roy'-o  da  la  poor-e'-se-ma. 
Carmel:  car-mel'. 
Carmelita:  car-mel-e'-ta. 
Carnicerias:  car-ne-ce-re'-as. 
Carpinteria:  car-pin-ter-e'-a. 
Carrillo:  car-reel'-yo. 
Casitas:  cas-e'-tas. 
Casmalia:  cas-mah'-le-a. 
Cayucos:    cah-yoo'-cos:     Indian 

canoes. 
CerroRomauldo:cer'-ro  ro-mahl'- 

do. 
Chamise:  cham-ees':  greasewood 

brush. 
Chica :  che'-ca :  little  thing,  a  term 

of  endearment. 
Chino:  chee'-no. 
Cienaga:  ce-en^a-ga. 
Colachi:  co-lah'-chi:  a  salad. 
Comandante:     co-man-dahn'-te: 

commandant. 
Comidas:  co-me'-das. 
Coronado:  co-ro-nah'-do. 
Corralillos:  cor-ra-leel'-yos:  little 

corrals. 
Cuyama:  coo-yah'-ma. 

Del    Norte:   del   nor'-te:  of  the 

north. 
Diablo:  de-ah'-blo. 
Dios  se  lo  pagare:  de-os'  sa  lo 

pah-gah-ra':  God  will   pay  it 

you. 
Dona   Anita    de    la   Guerra   de 

Noriega    y    Carrillo:    do'-nya 

a-ne'-ta  da  la  gair'-ra  de  nor- 

e-a'-ga  e  car-reel'-yo. 
Dona  Carolina:  do'-nya  car-o-le- 

na. 


Dona    Petronela:    do'-nya    pet- 

ro-na'-la. 
Dume:  doo'-me. 

El  Bulito:  el  boo-le'-to:  the  little 

owl. 
El    Desierto   Pintado:   el   da-se- 

airr'-to       peen-tah'-do  :       the 

painted  desert. 
El  Horno:  el  or'-no. 
El   Monte:  el  mon'-te:  literally, 

the  mountain,  but  often,  as  on 

page  I,  applied  to  a  thicket  of 

brush,  such  as  willows. 
El  Picacho:  el  pe-cah'-cho:  the 

sharp  peak. 
El  Pizmo:  el  pees'-mo. 
El  Rio:  el  ree'-o:  the  river. 
El  Toro:  el  tor'-o:  the  bull. 
El    Tranquillon:    el    trahn-keel- 

y5n':  the  great  tranquil  one. 
Encinitas:     en-cin-e'-tas:      little 

oaks. 
Engracia:  en-grah'-ce-a. 
Escondido:  es-con-de'-do:  hidden. 
Espada:  es-pah'-da:  sword. 
Estudillo:  es-too-de'-yo. 

Farallones:  far-al-lo'-nes. 
Fiesta:  fe-ais'-ta:  festival. 
Frijoles:  fre-h5'-les:  beans. 

Garcia:  gar-ce'-a. 
Gaviota:  ga-ve-6'-ta:  sea-gull. 
Goleta:  go-la'-ta:  schooner. 
Gorda:  gor'-da:  literally,  fat  or 

coarse;  hence,  broad. 
Guadalasca:  gwah-da-las'-ca. 
Guadalupe:  gwah-da-loo'-pe. 
Guajome:  gwah-ho'-me. 
Gualala:  gwah-lah'-la. 

Hueneme:  wa-na'-me. 


PRONOUNCING    GLOSSARY 


3i7 


Jalama:  ha-lah'-ma. 

JtMi.s  Serrano:  ha-soos'  ser-rah'- 

no. 
Jolon:  ho-lon'. 
Jose:  ho-sa'. 
Josefa:  ho-sa'-fa. 
Juan:  hwahn. 
Juan  Rodriguez  Cahrillo:  hwahn 

rod-re'-gez  cab-rcel'-yo. 
Julio:  hoo'-le-o. 
Junipero    Serra:    hoo-nee'-pe-ro 

ser'-ra. 

La  Costa:  la  c5'-sta. 

La   Cumbre:   la   coom'-bre:   the 

summit. 
La  Merced:  la   mcr-sed'. 
La  Patera:  la  pat-a'-ra:  the  place 

of  ducks. 
La  paz  sea  en  esta  casa:  la  pahz 

sa'-a  en  es'-ta  cah'-sa. 
La     Purisima     Concepcion:     la 

poor-e'-se-ma     con-cep-ce-6n': 

The   Immaculate   Conception. 
Laguna:  la-goon'-ah:  lagoon. 
Laguna    Salada:    la-goon'-a    sa- 

lah'-da:  salt  lagoon. 
Las  Bolsas:  las  bol'-sas. 
Las    Cruces:    las   croo'-ces:    the 

crosses. 
Las    Periasquitas:    las    pen-yas- 

kee'-tas:  the  little  rocks. 
Las  Pulgas:  las  pool'-gas. 
Lobos:  lo'-bos:  wolves. 
Lomas:  16'- mas:  hillocks. 
Lomas    de    la    Purificacion:    lo'- 

mas  da  la  poor-if-i-cah-ce-on': 

hillocks  of  the  Purification. 
Lompoc:     lom-poc':     from     two 

Indian  words  signifying  "little 

lake." 
Lopez:  lo'-pez. 
Los  Alamitos:  los  al-a-meet'-os. 


Los    Burros:    los    boor'-ros:    the 

donkeys. 
Los  Coyotes:  los  coy-6'-tes. 
Los  Monos:  los  mo'-nos. 
Los  Osos:  los  o'-sos:  the  bears. 

Madre:  mah'-dra:  mother. 

Madronos:  mad-ro'-nyos. 

Maliliu:  nial-i-boo'. 

Mas1  r.mcia:  mas-trahn'-se-a. 

Mendocino:  men-do-ce'-no. 

Mesa:  ma'-sah:  table-land. 

Mesquit:  mes-keet'. 

Mision  Vicja:  me-se-on'  ve-ii'-ha. 

Mision  Vieja  de  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano:  me-se-on'  ve-a'-ha  da 
san  hwahn  cap-is-trah'-no. 

Monserate:  mon-se-rah'-te. 

Montara:  mont-ah'-ra. 

Montecito:     mon-te-ce'-to:     hil- 
lock. 
I  Monterey:  mont-e-ray'. 

Moquis:  mo'-kes. 

Morro:  mor'-ro:  rocky  hill. 

Morteros:  mor-ta'-ros:  grinding- 
bowls. 

Mugii:  moo-goo'. 


Nacimiento:        na-ce-me-en'-to: 

birth. 
Navajos:  nah'-va-hos. 
Niguel:  ne-gail'. 
Nipomo:  nip-6'-mo. 
Nojogui:  no'-ho-hwe. 

Olla:  o'-ya:  an  earthen  jar. 

Pachanga:  pa-chahn'-ga. 
Padre:  pah'-dra:  father,  priest. 
Pajaro:  pah'-ha-ro:  bird. 
Pala:  pah'-la:  prickly  pear. 
Palo  Alto:  pah'-lo  ahl'-to:  high 
hill. 


318 


PRONOUNCING   GLOSSARY 


Palomar:  pah-lo-mar':  a  place  of 
doves. 

Palos  Verdes:  pah'-los  vair'-des: 
green  hills. 

Paseo:  pah-sa'-o. 

Paso  de  Bartolo:  pah'-so  da  bar- 
to'-lo. 

Patio:  pah'-te-o:  courtyard. 

Pauma:  pah-oo'-ma. 

Peons:  pa-ons':  laborers. 

Pescadero:     pes-ca-da'-ro:     fish- 
seller. 

Pesos:  pa'-s5s:  dollars. 

Petaluma:  pet-a-loo'-ma. 

Pico    Blanco:    pe'-co    blahn'-co: 
white  peak. 

Piedra  de  Lumbre:  pe-a'-dra  da 
loom'-bra. 

Piedras       Blancas:        pe-a'-dras 
blahn'-cas:  white  rocks. 

Pinos:  pee'-nos:  pines. 

Pizcando     nueces:     piz-cahn'-do 
noo-a'-ces:  picking  nuts. 

Potrero:  pot-ra'-ro. 

Potrero        Grande :        pot-ra'-ro 
grahn'-de. 

Presidio:  pres-id'-i-o:  fort,  garri- 
son. 

Pueblo:  poo-a'-blo:  town  or  vil- 
lage. 

Puerto  Trinidad:  pwair'-to  trin- 

e-dahd':  Port  Trinity. 
Punta  Gorda:  poon'-ta  gor'-da: 
broad  point. 

Refugio:  re-foo'-he-o. 
Reyes:  ray'-es:  kings. 
Riata:  re-ah'-ta:  lasso. 
Rincon:  rin-con':  corner. 
Rio  Hondo:  re'-o  on'-do. 
Roberto:  ro-bair'-to. 
Roble:  ro'-bla. 


Sal:  sahl. 

Salinas:  sa-le'-nas. 

San  Antonio:  san  an-to'-ne-o. 

San  Bruno:  san  broo'-no. 

San  Carlos:  san  car'-los. 

San  Carpoforo:  san  car-po'-fo-ro. 

San  Diego:  san  de-a'-go. 

San  Dieguito:  san  de-a-gee'-to: 
diminutive  of  San  Diego. 

San  Elijo:  san  a-le'-ho. 

San  Fernando:  san  fer-nan'-do. 

San  Francisquito :  san  fran-sis- 
kee'-to:  diminutive  of  San 
Francisco. 

San  Gregorio:  san  gre-gor'-e-o. 

San  Joaquin:  san  hwah-keen'. 

San  Juan:  san  hwahn. 

San  Julian:  san  hoo-le-ahn'. 

San  Lorenzo:  san  lo-ren'-zo. 

San  Luis  Obispo:  san  loo'-is  o- 
bis'-po:  St.  Louis,  Bishop  (of 
Toulouse),  in  distinction  from 
St.  Louis,  King  (of  France), 
to  whom  the  Mission  of  San 
Luis  Rey,  farther  south,  is  ded- 
icated. 

San  Luis  Rey:  san  loo'-is  ray. 

San  Martin:  san  mar-teen'. 

San  Mateo:  san  ma-ta'-o. 

San  Miguel:  san  me-gail'. 

San  Miguelito:  san  me-gail-e'-to: 
diminutive  of  San  Miguel. 

San  Pedro:  san  pa'-dro. 

San  Rafael:  san  ra-fa-el'. 

San  Simeon:  san  se'-me-on. 

Sanchez:  sahn'-chez. 

Santa  Ana:  san'-ta  ah'-nah. 

Santa  Catalina:  san'-ta  cat-a- 
le'-na. 

Santa  Cruz:  san'-ta  crooz. 

Santa  Gertrudis:  san'-ta  her- 
troo'-dis. 

Santa  Ines:  san'-ta  e-nes'. 


PRONOUNCING   GLOSSARY 


319 


Santa    Margarita:   san'-ta    mar- 

ga-re'-ta. 
Santa  Maria:  san'-ta  ma-ree'-a. 
Santa    Monica:    san'-ta    mun'-i- 

ca. 
Santa  Rosa:  san'-ta  ro'-sa. 
Santa  Susanas:  san'-ta  soo-sah'- 

nas. 
Santa  Ynez:  san'-ta  e-nez\ 
Santiago:  san-tc-ah'-go. 
Santiago  dc  Santa  Ana:    san-te- 

ah'-go  da  san'-ta  ah'-nah. 
Sausalito:      sau-sal-e'-to:      little 

place  of  willows. 
Sebastian     Vizcaino:     se-bas-te- 

ahn'  viz-cah'-e-no. 
Sierra     Santa     Lucia:     se-er'-ra 

san'-ta  loo-ce'-a. 
Simi:  sim-ee'. 
Soldado  de  cuero:  sol-dah'-do  da 

koo-a'-ro:   soldier  with  leather 

jacket. 
Soledad:  so-le-dahd':  solitude. 
Sonoma:  so-no'-ma. 
Sur:  soor. 

Ta males:  ta-mah'-les. 
Tamalpais:  tah-mal-pah'-ees. 


Tecolote:  te-co-lo'-te:  owl. 

Tehachapi:  tc-hach'-a-pe. 

Tejon:  te-hon':  badger. 

Tiendas:  te-ain'-das. 

Tito:  te'-to. 

Todos  Santos:  to'-dos  san'-tos: 
All  Saints. 

Tollon:  toy-on'. 

Tomas  Alvarado:  to-mahs'  al- 
va-rah'-do. 

Topanga:  to-pan'-ga. 

Tortillas:  tor-tee'-yas:  a  sort  of 
wafer-bread. 

Trancas:  trahn'-cas. 

Tularenos:  too-lar-a'-nyos:  In- 
dians of  the  Tulare  region. 

Tulcs:  too'-les:  reeds. 

Tuna:  toon'-ah:  prickly  pear. 

Tunitas:  too-ne'-tas:  little  prickiy 
pears. 

Vaquero:  va-ka'-ro:  cowboy. 
Ventura:  wn-too'-ra. 
Vicente:  ve-cen'-te. 

Yerba  Buena:  yer'-ba  bwa'-na: 
good  herb,  a  small  plant  of  the 
mint  family. 


INDEX 


Acu.  30. 

Adventurers,  a  pair  <>f.  304.  30s. 

Agua  Caliente.  34- 

Agua  Hedlonda,  ;i . 

Albion,  21s,  270. 

Alder  Creek.  27 1-273- 

Ali-.il.  102. 

Aliso  Cafion,  it.  -■:■ 

(-■■ 
Alvarado,  Don  Tomas,  ranch  of.  36-38. 
Alvarado,  Governor,  220. 
Alvarado  Ranch,  45- 
Anton,    the   horse,   acquisition   of,    182. 

183;  daily  Intercourse  with,  too,  191, 
/..  tog  aoi,  -"  i.  205,  209.  210, 

219.  -  ■■  -is.  840-951,  256, 

259.  2O4.  265.  277.  283.  284,  286,  287. 

290,  301.  304,  30S.  3«i  parting  with. 

3i  1. 
Aptos,  gag, 

lo,  207.  208. 
.  297,  -'98. 
Arroyo  <!'•  los  Frijoles,  236. 
Arroyo  Grande,  199- 
Arroyo  Grande  Valley,  142. 
Avila.  14s.  146- 
Avila.  Don  Juan,  145.  146. 

Ballard  Creek,  97- 

Bay  of  San  Francisco,  241. 

tflon,  252. 
Bear  River.  29a, 

RJvei  K  inge,  292.  293. 
Bells,  "  ..  "55- 

Ben  Lomond,  Cal.,  -'j-'. 
Benito.  193. 
Berkeley.  244- 

moon.  300. 
Big  River.  277- 

208. 

Billy,  the  horse,  -\  si- 

1  hubbub  of,  20;  on  the  seashore. 
11.'. 
Bivalve  St.ition.  25s. 

Boney  Mountain,  oy.  73- 


Bonsall  ; 

Boulder  Creek.  232. 

Buckler.  Pat  t02. 

Burton 

Cabrillo.  Juan  Rodriguez.  73,  219.  291. 
.  tun. 1.  15. 

( lalabasas,  s'>. 

California  Redwood  Park.  232.  Hi- 

California!  Spaniards,  the  author's  lik- 
ing for,  •!.  ■■■  hospitable  couple.  134; 
Don   Camilo   R.   and   his  don 

Spanish  Petruchio,  136;  Don 
Juan    Avila,     [45,  1    near 

Jolon,  185,  18O;  family  affection 
among,  180;  a  friendly  old  man, 
197. 

CalockortUS  albus.    See  Mariposa  Tulip. 

Cambria.  161. 

Canada  del  Cojo,  115. 

Cafion  dc  los  Monos.  41. 

C;i|»-  Mendocino.  280-292. 

Cape  San  Martin.  189.  191. 

Cape  town,  Cal.,  292. 
ratio,  27-30. 

Carlsbad,  Cal..  40. 

Carmel-by-the-Sea,  216.  2 17. 

Carmel  Mission,  215,  216. 

Carmel  River,  215. 

Carmelita.  Dotia,  220. 

Carpinteria,  81,  82. 

Casmalia,  13a. 

River,  277. 
ro's  Ranch,  205. 

Castroville.  225,  226. 

( '.iv.  .1  hermit's,  25.  26. 

Cayuco-. 

Cedar,  red  'Thuja  plicata),  293. 

Cerro  Romauldo.  156. 

Chamise  Mountain.  286. 

Channel  Islands,  >.tnta  Barbara,  73.  80, 
113. 

Chinese,  an  equestrian,  1 1 ;  1 
127 .  at  1  in  1 

Chino.  1  ly  intercoui 

3.  Si.  54.  55.  Oo-''.  .71.  7'J, 

81.  90.  102.  103.  114.  120.  i.u,  137, 
143.  149-152,  157.  159.  103.  I7'J.  172- 


322 


INDEX 


174,  177-179.  277;  in  a  quicksand, 
106-109;  conversations  with,  151, 
152,  178,  179;  farewell  to,  182,  183. 

Cleone,  278. 

Coast  of  California,  compared  to  Chan- 
nel Islands,  22. 

Colma,  241,  242. 

Coon  Creek  Canon,  149.  152. 

Cooper,  Elwood,  ranch  of,  89. 

Cooskie  Range,  288. 

Corralillos  Canon,  138. 

Cowboys,  157.  158. 

Coyotes,  25,  131.  176,  185. 

Crescent  City,  308,  309.  312. 

Crows,  130,  131. 

Cuffey's  Cove,  275. 

Cuyamaca  Mountain,  47. 

Cypress  Point,  218. 

Cypresses,  21,  214. 

Dana,  John,  141. 

Dana,  Richard  Henry,  Jr.,  his  Two  Years 
before  the  Mast,  26-28,  59,  60,  84,  86, 
88,  120,  124,  141,  142,  219-221. 

Dana  family,  the,  141,  142. 

De  la  Guerra,  mansion,  86,  87. 

De  la  Guerra  de  Noriega  y  Carrillo, 
Dona  Anita,  86. 

Del  Mar,  44. 

Del  Norte  County,  305-312. 

Diablo  Creek,  150. 

Dolan's  ranch,  201. 

Doves,  177. 

Downey,  10. 

Drake,  Sir  Francis,  252-254. 

Drake's  Bay,  251-254. 

Eagle,  bald,  115. 

Eel  River,  294,  295. 

Egret,  American,  177. 

El  Bulito  Canon,  115. 

El  Desierto  Pintado,  3. 

El  Homo,  32. 

El  Monte,  1,  5,  54- 

El  Morro,  158,  159. 

El  Picacho,  142. 

El  Pizmo,  142,  143. 

El  Rio,  75- 

El  Tranquillon,  120. 

Elk  River,  273. 

Encinitas,  43. 

Engelhardt,  Father  Zephyrin,  86. 

Erbswurst,  4. 

Escondido  Creek,  43. 

Espada,  ranch-house  of  the,  122. 

Estudillo  mansion,  51. 


Eucalyptus,  18,  19.  89.  227. 

Eureka,  294-297. 

Eytel,  Carl,  1-4,  13,  20,  21,  24,  30,  48. 

Fairview,  12. 

Fallbrook,  33. 

Farallones,  248,  251. 

Farmer,  a  typical  American,  ir. 

Ferndale,  294. 

Feud,  a,  271,  272. 

Fir,  lowland,  269. 

Fir,  Santa  Lucia,  168,  170,  171. 

Fisherman,  an  old  Marblehead  skipper, 

115-117;    Portuguese,    115-118,    144, 

145. 
Flicker,  274. 
Flowers,  wreaths  of,  125. 
Fogs,  104,  195.   198,  199.  202,  203,  291; 

regularity    of    movement,  191;    in    a 

forest,  304. 
Fort  Bragg,  278. 
Fort  Humboldt,  296. 
Fort  Ross,  261,  262. 
Foxglove,  283,  301. 
Franciscan     Missions,     Father     Engel- 

hardt's  History  of  the,  86. 
Frank,  post-office,  286. 
Franklin  Point,  235. 
Freedom,  village  of,  228. 
Freshwater  Lagoon,  302. 

Gamboa's  Ranch,  198,  199. 

Garcia  River,  270. 

Gaviota,  82,  105,  106. 

Gaviota  Pass,  102. 

Globe-tulip,   or   Mariposa   tulip    (Calo- 

chortus  albus),  58,  96. 
Goleta  Point,  88. 
Government  Point,  118. 
Grant,  U.  S.,  296. 
Grapevine,  a  large,  82,  83. 
Greenwood,  273. 
Guadalasca  Ranch,  73. 
Guadalupe,  138. 
Guajome  Ranch-House,  39- 
Gualala,  267,  268. 
Gualala  River,  267,  268. 

Half  Moon  Bay,  239. 
Hamlet,  256. 
Hardy  Creek,  280,  281. 
Hare  Creek,  277. 

Harte,  Bret,  quoted,  220,  244;  at  Eu- 
reka, 296. 
Hawks,  25. 
Hemlock  {Tsuga  heterophylla),  301,  302. 


INDEX 


323 


Horse,  intelligence  of  the,  179.   Ste  also 

Anton,  Billy,  and  Chino. 
Huckleberry,  285. 
Iluiiit-me,  73-75. 
Humboldt  Bay,  -■■;=;. 
Humboldt  County,  southern  boundary 

of,  285. 

Indian  reli,  s.  [64. 

Indiana,  '.1  a. •;  1  (  allente,  14,  35;  the 
Tularefios,   154;  two  musicians.   180; 

at  Trinidad   Bay,  300;  at   Recjua.  307- 
Intoxicated  man.  an,  75-77. 
[lie,  a  distant.  I  13. 
Italian*,  at  (  "hn.i,  241.  242. 
Italian  Swiss,  157,  250,  25a. 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt,  39. 

Jalama  Creek,  [31. 

J. llama  Ranch,  tai,  122. 

Japanese,  a  girl,  75;  abalone  fishers,  162. 

leaner,  259. 

Jolon,  180-183. 

Kenny  Ranch,  284. 
Kingbirds,  20,  25. 
Kind's  Peak  Range.  287. 
Klamath  River,  306. 

La  Costa,  42. 

La  Patera,  88. 

La  Purisima  Concepci6n,  Mission  of, 
121,  124,  128. 

Laguna  Beach,  16,  17. 

Laguna  Canon,  14,  15. 

Laguna  Peak,  67. 

Laguna  Salada,  241. 

Lake  Earl,  309. 

Larkin,  Thomas  O.,  221. 

Las  Cruces,  105. 

Las  Peflasquitas  Canon,  45,  47. 

Las  Peftasquitas  Ranch,  45-47. 

Las  Pulgas,  32. 

Laurel.  03. 

Life  in  California,  by  an  American. 
86. 

Lighthouse,  night  at  a.  118-120;  at  Trin- 
idad, 300. 

I.il at  .  mountain.  58. 

Lime  Kiln  Canon,  106. 

Linda  Vista  Mesa,  47,  48. 

Lion,  mountain,  204. 

Little  River.  276. 

Little  Sur  River,  208.  2og,  211, 

Little  Sycamore  Cafion,  67. 

Little's  Springs,  201. 


Lomas  de  la  I'urificacion,  97- 

,    ,    1  _•  ;     i  -•'•    1  28. 

Longfellow,  Henry  \v. id-worth,  his  "Fire 
oi  1  >riftwood  "  quoted,  05. 
Point,  194. 
Lot  Angele  1,  84. 

..s  Valley,  153- 

Lucia,  107. 

Mad  River.  :<>&.  :     >, 

Madonna,  a  wooden,  101. 

Madrono,  06,  1 89,  a  14,  285. 

Malibu  Ranch,  61-66. 

Manchester,  t  al.,  271. 

Mariposa  tulip,  or  globe-tulip  (Colo- 
chorttu  albus),  58,  96. 

M  iti.il. 1  River,  287-289. 

Mendoi  in<>  City,  277. 

08,  courtesy  of,  8;  the  author's 
liking  for,  9;  a  aheep-herder,  62,  63; 
hospitabli .  69,  70;  the  boy  Jos6.  85, 
86;  Bernardito  the  Jolly,  94,  95;  in 
church.  153,  154;  a  hospitable  woman, 
167;  family  affection  among,  186; 
large  families,  197;  and  a  phonograph, 
199- 

Mill  Creek,  194,  195. 

Mill  Creek,  another,  212. 

Mill  Valley.  245,  246. 

Mineralogist,  an  amateur,  210,  ail. 

Miracle,  a,  144. 

Mission  Dolores,  220,  244. 

Mission  Valley,  49. 

Missions,  San  Gabriel,  6,  7;  San  Juan 
Capistrano,  27,  29,  30;  San  Antonio 
of  Pala,  34,  35;  San  Luis  Rey,  40,  San 
Diego,  49;  San  Fernando,  65;  San 
Buenaventura,  77,  78;  Santa  Barbara, 
85,86;  Santa  Ynez,  93.98-102;  La  Pur- 
isima Concepci6n,  131,  124,  128;  San 
Francisquito,  121;  San  Luis  Obispo, 
153-155;  San  Antonio,  183-185;  San 
Carlos,  or  Carmel,  215,  216;  San  Carlos 
at  Monterey,  222,  223;  San  Francisco 
de  Asis.  244;  San  Rafael,  246. 

Monscrate  Ranch-House,  36-38. 

Montara  Point,  240. 

Montedto,  83. 

Monterey,  -•  19-224. 

Morro,  15*- 

Moss  Landing.  225,  226. 

Mount  Diablo.  346. 

Mount  Tamalpaia,  24=;,  246. 

Muir.  John,  on  rattlesnakes,  113. 

Muir  Woods,  247. 


324 


INDEX 


Murphy's  Canon,  48,  49. 
Mustard,  127. 

Nacimiento  River,  I75-I77- 
Names  of  places,  269. 
Naples,  Cal.,  92. 
Navarro  River,  275. 
Nipomo  Valley,  141. 
Nojogui  River,  103. 
North,  the,  60. 
Notice,  a  voluble,  188,  189. 
Noyo,  277. 
Noyo  Creek,  278. 

Oak,  tan-bark,  198. 

Oak,  valley,  174. 

Oakland,  244. 

Oaks,  97,  104. 

Oceanside,  40. 

Oilport,  143. 

Old  Fort  Ross,  261,  262. 

Olema,  255. 

Olive  trees,  122. 

Oregon,  reaching,  310-312. 

Orick,  302. 

Owl,  ground,  24. 

Oxen,  230,  231. 

Oxnard,  74,  75. 

Pacific  Grove,  219. 

Pacific  Valley,  192-194. 

Pajaro  River,  228. 

Palomar  Mountain,  33,  38. 

Pelicans,  28,  112. 

Pescadero,  236. 

Petrolia,  289,  290. 

Petronela,  Dona,  186. 

Phonograph,  199. 

Pico  Blanco,  208. 

Piedra  de  Lumbre,  32. 

Piedras  Blancas,  163-165. 

Pigeon  Point,  235,  236. 

Pillar  Point,  239. 

Pine  (Pimis  muricaia) ,  263. 

Pine  (Pinus  radiaia),  160,  161,  212. 

Pine,  digger,  171,  187. 

Pine,  knob-cone,  148. 

Pine,  Torrey,  44. 

Pine,  yellow,  187. 

Pine  Canon,  129,  130. 

Point  Ano  Nuevo,  235. 

Point  Arena,  town  and  headland,  270. 

Point  Arguello,  1 20. 

Point  Cabrillo,  277. 

Point  Conception,  88,  1 18-120. 

Point  Dume,  60,  63. 


Point  Estero,  160. 

Point  Gorda,  191. 

Point  Harford,  143. 

Point  Lobos,  214. 

Point  Reyes,  251. 

Point  Reyes  Station,  235. 

Point  Sal,  132-136. 

Point  Sur,  203,  208-210. 

Poison-oak,  284. 

Pomegranates,  184. 

Portuguese,  fishermen,  115-118,  144, 
145;  a  restaurant  proprietor,  160;  a 
family,  213;  lumbermen,  230,  231. 

Post's,  207,  208. 

Punta  Gorda,  80. 

Purisima,  239. 

Quail,  20,  204,  244. 
Quicksand,  106-109. 

Rainbow  Ridge,  288. 

Ramona,  39. 

Ranch-houses,  Sanchez,  8-10;  Santa 
Margarita,  32;  Monserate,  36-38; 
Guajome,  39;  Alvarado  and  Las  Pefi- 
asquitas,  45-47;  preservation  of  the, 
46,  47;  Serrano,  69,  70;  Espada,  122; 
Point  Sal,  134-136;  Nipomo,  141;  of 
the  Danas,  141,  142;  an  Irishman's, 
152,  153;  Piedras  Blancas,  163;  near 
Jolon,  185,  186;  on  the  San  Antonio 
River,  186;  at  Pacific  Valley,  192;  Gam- 
boa's,  198,  199;  Castro's,  205;  an  Ital- 
ian-Swiss, 251,  252;  Kenny's,  284. 

Ranchos,  California  land  held  in,  27. 

Rattlesnakes,  112,  113,  150,  151,  204. 

Redwood,  190,  204,  205;  Santa  Cruz, 
229-234;  thick  foliage,  263;  a  habit  of 
growth,  303;  northern  boundary  of, 
309,  310. 

Refugio  Pass,  93. 

Requa,  307. 

Rincon  Point,  80,  81. 

Rio  Hondo,  10. 

Road-runners,  24. 

Robinson,  Alfred,  86,  87. 

Rockport,  282. 

Rowdy  Creek.  310. 

Ruskin,  John,  209. 

Russian  River,  258,  259. 

Russians,  in  California,  258,  261,  262. 

Salinas  River,  225. 

Salmon  Creek,  257. 

San  Antonio,  Mission  of,  183-185. 

San  Antonio  Creek,  130. 


INDEX 


325 


San  Antonio  of  Pala,  3.}.  gg, 

S.m  Antonio  River,  170,  186. 

s.m  Bruno  Mountain)  241. 

S.m  Buenaventura,  Mi    ion  of,  77,  78. 

s.m  »  arlos,  1  bun  h  of,  -•-•-•.  -•-•  i. 
S.m  I  in  of,  215,  -''<■ 

San  Carp 

S.m   1  111 

San  1  19. 

1   iguito  Rlvi 
s.m  E  In"  <   11.  m,  1 1, 
s  m  Fernando,  ss. 
S.m  Fernando  Valley,  56. 
s.m  Frandf  0,  In  the  thirties,  84;  stay 

m,  143-245. 
S.m     Francisco    de    Asia,    Mission    of, 

244. 
S.m   FrandsquitO,   Mission  of,   121. 
San  Gabriel.  6. 
San  Gregorio, 

San  Joaquin,  the  two  valleys  of,  14. 
s.m  Joaquin  1  1111b,  13,  14. 
San  Joaquin  Ranch,  u. 
San  Juan  Capistrano,  27-30. 
San  Juan  Creek,  -'7.  31. 
s.m  J  ii.iu  Hot  Springs,  31. 

S.m  Julian  Ranch,  122. 
San  Lorenzo  River,  230-232. 
S.m  Lui     (reek.   145. 

San  Luis  Obispo,  1.17.  153-155. 

B  Rev,  Mission  of.  40. 
San  Luis  Rev  River,  35,  38. 

s.m  Mateo,  31,  32. 

San  Pedro,  so. 

S.m  Pedro,  valley  of,  240. 

San  Pedro  Point,  240. 

San  Rafael,  946. 

San  Rafael  Range,  102. 

San     Simeon,     bay    and     village,    162, 

163. 
Sanchez  Ranch-house,  8-10. 
Santa  Ana  Mountains,  1.5,  14,  23. 
Santa  1-87. 

Santa  Catallna,  _•  1 . 
Santa  Cruz,  229. 

[nes,  Mission  of,  93,  98-102. 
Santa  Lu<  la  Mountains,   138,   139,  153, 

1  S''. 

Santa  Lucia  Peak.  187.  188. 
Santa  Margarita,  32. 

Maria,  r.30. 

Maria  River,  139. 
s.mt. 1  Maria  Valley,  138. 
Santa  Monica,  59. 
s.mt. 1  Monii  a  Mountains,  56.  61. 

Santa  RuiU  Creek,  101. 


Santa  Susanas  Mountains,  56. 
Santa   '.  ;i  Of,  03.  98-IO2. 

Santa  Yirz  Mountains.  80,   81.  92,  95" 
97.   1 

s.mt. 1  \ii./  River,  98,  129. 
Santiago  Mountain,  1 1, 

0,  245, 
s  oool,  the  Pi  1.  165. 

Sea,  tin-,  undei  a  cloudy  sky.  111,  112; 

sadness  of ,  133;  purity  of,  213. 
Sea-birds,  112. 

1  17. 

.  embryo  city  of,  224. 
Seaview,  -•'•! , 
Serra,  Junfpero,  86,  216. 
Serrano,  Jesils  and  Francisco,  69-71. 
Seventeen- Mile  Drive,  217. 
Sheep,  a  flock  of,  62,  63. 
Shelter  Cove.  286. 
Sierra  Madrr,  7. 
Sierra  Santa  Lucia,  131,  132. 
Simi  Hills,  56. 
SinRley,  295. 
Skunk,  a,  187. 
Slate's,  201. 
Smith  Mountain  (Palomar  Mountain), 

33.  38. 
Smith  River,  310. 
Smith  River  Corners,  310,  311. 
Soledad  River,  44. 
Sorrento,  45. 

Spaniards.  See  Californian  Spaniards. 
Springs,  medicinal,  201. 
Spruce,  302. 
Spruce,  Sitka,  293,  294. 
Squirrels,  ground,  24. 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  in  Monterey, 

221;    monument    in    San    Francisco, 

243. 
Stewart's  Point,  265,  266. 
Stone  Lagoon,  301. 
Summerland,  83. 
Sur,  212. 

Surf,  an  unusual  sound  from,  109,  no. 
Swallows,  150,  184,  216. 

7.  150.  161. 
Sycamore  Canon.  71. 

Table  Bluff.  295. 
Tan-bark  Camp,  198. 
Tecolotc  Caflon,  90,  91. 
Tehachapi  Mountains.  140. 

Ten  Mile  River,  . 

Thoreau,  Henry  I).,  quoted,  6o,  274. 
Tide,  evicted  by  the,  110,  111. 
Timber  Cove.  203. 


326 


INDEX 


Todos  Santos,  valley  of  the,  132. 

Tollon,  71. 

Tomales  Bay,  255. 

Topanga  Canon,  57. 

Tramp,  camping  with  a,  122,  123. 

Trancas  Canon,  63. 

Traveller,  a,  91. 

Tree-poppy,  58. 

Trinidad,  299,  300. 

Trinidad  Bay,  299. 

Tularefios,  the,  154. 

Tunitas  Creek,  239. 

Usal,  283. 

Usal  Creek,  283. 

Valley,  a  typical  California,  22,  23. 

Valley  Ford,  256. 

Ventura,  76-78. 

Ventura  River,  79. 

Vicente  Creek,  198. 

Vizcaino,  Sebastian,  219. 


Waddell  Creek,  235. 
Waterfall,  on  the  Nojogui,  103. 
Watsonville,  228. 
Welsh,  163,  164,  169. 
West,  the,  41,  60. 
Westport,  280. 
Whiskey  Hill,  228. 
Whitehouse  Creek,  235. 
Whitesboro',  275,  276. 
Whitman,  Walt,  quoted,  91. 
Whittier,  the  town,  7. 
Wild-Cat  Country,  294. 
Wild-cats,  37. 
Wilder,  287. 
Willow  Camp,  248,  249. 
Willow  Creek,  190,  191. 
Windchuck  Creek,  311. 
Winship,  Captain,  296. 
Wren,  cliff,  20. 

Yew,  289. 
Yucca,  64,  171. 


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